What I Learned About Life From Mashed Potatoes

Once upon a long time ago, 20 years ago to be exact, I was a young mom and wife who thought she had life all figured out. I had a healthy and beautiful one-year-old little girl, a husband that I would have slayed dragons for, a warm and cozy home and to add to the bucketful of blessings that was my life, I was pregnant with my second child. I had it all. I knew it all, as well….or so I thought.

It was just around Christmas time and I had invited my aunt and her family over for dinner. I was going to cook them the perfect feast. I had laid out quite the hors d’oeuvre spread so that they could all chat with my husband and play with my daughter while I made the last-minute preparations for our meal. (I need to preface this whole story by stating that as a now entertaining veteran, I do know to pre-prepare mashed potatoes so that I’m not frantically smashing them in front of my guests.)

Now, this particular aunt had an immeasurable impact on my upbringing. She was the first person to really show me things about family that my immediate and very dysfunctional family could not. To say that I was raised by wolves is a gross exaggeration, yet for some reason it’s what comes to mind.

So as I set to peeling potatoes, said aunt wandered into the kitchen. I had just finished my first one and when I threw it in the water my aunt asked, “Girl, you’re not gonna cook those potatoes like that are you?” She was from down south and had the most endearing way of calling me ‘girl’ when she was either shocked at something someone had done or was instructing me on something….”Girl, you need to get yourself a training bra!” was one of my favorites when my own mother failed to mention (or notice) that I had started to sprout breasts. I myself was convinced that I had cancer so imagine my relief when she told me they were just ‘baby boobies’ as she had called them.

“What’s wrong with the potatoes?” I asked a little defensively.

“Why are your wedges so big? You need to cut them down some, “ she instructed.

“I’ve been cooking potatoes like this for years!”

As I said it out loud, a montage of mashed potato fails played in my mind. All the times that I watched my then-husband tongue a random piece of uncooked potato to the front of his mouth to investigate what the foreign object might be, flashed in front of me. To his credit, after a while he stopped doing that and just learned to chew harder.

I felt like I was about to receive a revelation as important as the ‘baby boobies.’

Her approached softened and she said, “Who taught you to cook them that way?”

“Grandma.” The first syllable was strong…”GRAND!” But mid-word the realization hit me. I loved my Grandma but man, did she make some lumpy mashed potatoes. The second syllable was weaker…more like a soft exhale……”maaaaa.” The second time I said it, it was flat with realization…”Grandma.”

She proceeded to explain to me the twofold benefits of cutting them smaller. She even grabbed a knife and showed me the best way to cut them. It seemed that the smaller the chunks, the faster they would cook. DUH. Why had I not put that together? Secondly, because the smaller chunks will be more uniform in size, they would cook more evenly. No more lumps. Double DUH.

She finished off the lesson, as she most often did, by applying it to life. “You know, you don’t always have to do things Grandma’s way. It’s okay to think for yourself. There’s always going to be a better way to do things and it’s okay to try them…..even if Grandma doesn’t approve.”

With that one statement she had nailed the root cause of many of the self-imposed limitations that I had set in my life. Almost every major life choice that I had made in my adult years had been weighed by the standard instilled in me by my Grandmother. I loved her with all my heart and soul but she was a woman afraid of her own shadow.

Today we call it PTSD but back then it was known as shell shock. During WWII she had survived ‘the camp’ as she had quietly called it. Her life had not been easy and when she came to this country all she was looking for was some peace and a simple way of life. She didn’t want to challenge herself because in her heart and mind she had already survived the ultimate challenge. She was here. She was safe. She would cut her potatoes the way she wanted to. Change, to my grandmother, was the enemy. Striving or even wishing for more or better of anything might anger God and send his fury down upon her for her lack of appreciation for the blessings that He had already bestowed upon her. Until the day she died, this was the way she thought. It breaks my heart.

So it was that day in my kitchen, with neatly cubed potatoes boiling in front of me, that I gave myself permission to think. Permission to challenge the way I viewed the smallest of things from vegetable preparation, to the biggest of things like God and family. I allowed myself to question the things in my life that didn’t make sense. I allowed myself to change and to evolve.

My aunt passed on a few years ago. She leaves behind her legacy by way of her free-thinking sons and grandchildren and by extension my own son and daughter. I’ve tried to instill in both of my children that the sky is the limit and the path is paved with questions, challenges, lessons and most of all the expectation of good and beautiful things. We deserve to dream. Every one does.

So here’s to my beautiful aunt, no doubt an angel up in heaven looking down at us protectively…still guiding us in ways that only my cousins and I will ever understand. Aunt D, here’s to your beauty, your angelic singing voice, your love and dedication to God, your ability to speak your mind and your truth but most of all….Girl, here’s to your mashed potatoes.