On many Sunday afternoons in the winter, my mom made mashed potatoes. Sometimes we would snatch a raw hunk of peeled potato, shake salt on it and munch away in spite of her complaining and unsubstantiated rumbling about it being potentially unhealthy.
I loved how the windows would steam up as the pieces boiled away and how the lid made a continuous rattling sound. It smelled good and felt safe.
One of my sisters would mix peas into the final product, whereas I preferred making a covered cave with hidden melted butter inside.