Mashed potatoes

When I die you can bury me in a coffin full of mashed potatoes and turkey gravy. Not just any old mashed potatoes but Mom’s mashed potatoes and Mom’s gravy.

I say that every year about this time. I don’t even have to close my eyes to hear the sound of the potato beater rackety-racketing in the heavy pot she used. I kept that old, wooden-handled tool for years until I wore it out.

No lumps! No ricer! No skins, either, and no milk, but real cream, baby, and butter, lots of it. My job to peel and cut up the spuds, put ‘em on to boil about half an hour before the turkey was ready. Keep an eye on ‘em so they didn’t overcook, then tell Mom they were ready. Too heavy for me to drain.

Drain and sit back on the electric burner—no gas in Connecticut then—to dry out a bit. Then the beating. If there were a lot of potatoes Dad would have to take a turn, Dad or anyone who waltzed into the tiny kitchen with an opinion about the food. Most just wanted to taste the gravy or pull a crispy bit of skin off the neck end.

When’s dinner ready? We all whined over the sounds of the football game.

Do I have time for another round? My father asked. He liked Manhattans. With a cherry in the bottom. (Oh God, Daddy.) He'd already pulled the cork from a bottle of French red from the case in the cellar.

Mom made a roux in the turkey pan and I swirled in the giblet broth until the gravy was as smooth and silky, as richly brown as the roasted turkey itself. Another glob of butter to round it out. Hope there'd be enough for tonight and tomorrow. And tomorrow.

Fill my plate, hell, fill my coffin with Mom’s mashed potatoes and just pour that gravy all over me. Then bury me. I’m done.