Mashed Potatoes

November 24, 2023

 

Thanksgiving is by far my favorite holiday. For us it has always been about family, land, and gratitude.  When my mom was growing up on the property there had always been a very formal Thanksgiving meal, after which the minister and his wife went home, and the family had a very informal bonfire by the pond on the old Clatter Valley Road.

When my grandmother died, my mother and her siblings dispensed with the formal gathering and decided to just have a picnic dinner in the field instead. It’s been that way for almost 60 years.

The motto is “no matter what the weather”. There have been years that the meal was so waterlogged that it was just a matter of stubborn pride to attend and the enormously fun benefit of being able to mention “that year” for decades to come.

“Do you remember the year it rained so hard that the mashed potatoes ran off the plate?” And then quickly saying as if to correct the error - “oh, that’s right, your side of the family ate inside that year.”

 Most people think we’re nuts and some years I’d agree but this year it was a balmy 50 degrees, our mashed potatoes stayed dry, and the gravy didn’t need to be cut with a knife.

We put up a zipline for the kids, and they had “the best Thanksgiving ever!” The pigs seemed energized by all the company, though they and the rest of the menagerie had been sequestered in an adjoining pasture. I don’t know if it’s part of my aging process or the compounding insanity of the outside world, but my gratitude list grows every year. I have so very much to be grateful for, and this year warm mashed potatoes and dry socks happily made the list.

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