This is the way I remember it: We’re all gathered in the kitchen on Christmas Eve, too many bodies for one small space, and my grandfather is telling stories. We clear the dishes as he starts recalling the first time he made mashed potatoes as a fledgling bachelor cook. He didn’t know to still the beaters on the electric mixer before they entered the bowl. The minute the fast-whirling beaters hit the boiled potatoes, the bowl’s contents erupted, flinging clumps of half-mashed spuds all around the house. There were potatoes on the floors, on the walls, on the furniture, in my grandfather’s hair. The kitchen roars as he remembers finding potatoes at random places around the house for days thereafter.
I’m quiet amidst the laughter, watching my mother, because I…
