Mashed Potatoes
On Home for the Holidays
It was Thanksgiving. I knew it was going to be a bad one because my dad was deployed this fall, so it was just my mom, sister, and me. Sierra and I were both home from college for the break; after months of freedom, we were desensitized to Jill’s behaviors.
The overhead light above the kitchen table of my childhood home was piss yellow. Not remotely close to the crisp, pleasant white that arguably should be legally required for overhead lights, which are already objectively unpleasant. But a putrid bright yellow, radiating at absolute full capacity at all times even though the light switch had a dimmer.
I didn’t dare touch the switch.
Instead I nervously, awkwardly, shuffled about the kitchen, as I had for the past 20 minutes after she yelled upstairs that dinner was ready. She’d refused our offers, albeit tentative, to help with the cooking. I was secretly grateful for the subsequent delay of certain and utter chaos, but I also knew her afternoon of solitude in the kitchen would be a catalyst for the evening’s downfall.
The kitchen was a small, open-concept layout, where the 4-person oak table sat at the edge of the tile floor, flanking the carpeted staircase. The 2 flights of stairs to my second-floor bedroom always felt close, comforting. On the other side of the table, a slightly curved granite counter separated the dining space from the kitchen. Four bar stools were tucked against the countertop perfectly, their olive green cushions much more enticing than the antiquated wooden chairs accompanying the kitchen table. Sierra and I sat at the bar to hastily devour cereal and orange juice for breakfast every morning back in high school. I’d never seen Jill sit at the bar. Even if she ate lunch alone, she sat at the kitchen table.
I leaned against the wall and took a solemn sip of my beer. I wasn’t particularly in the mood for beer, but she didn’t keep hard liquor in the house and we weren’t allowed to have wine. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t interested in taking an edge off. It was a 5% ABV pilsner from the Czech Republic. Jill almost exclusively drank European beer: lagers or pilsners, never more than 5%.
I took another, larger swig.
Jill’s back was towards me, bent over getting something out of the oven. The turkey probably. A sliver of her back peeked out as her tight long-sleeve top became slightly untucked from her thick leather belt. She nearly always wore a tight shirt tucked into equally tight bootcut jeans, and it seemingly always became slightly untucked when she moved. Which was bizarre, because she had a 5’4” frame and zero tits to speak of so it was nonsensical how these tops were incessantly too short for her torso.
I knew she straightened her hair this afternoon, and put on makeup even though we weren’t leaving the house, but her dyed-blonde strands were now jutting out moreso horizontal than vertical in a that unique frizzy way that can only be attributed to using a shitty flat iron on damaged, shoulder-length hair in the most humid state in America.
She whipped around holding the turkey. Her eyes were massive blue saucers, glistening with mania and rage and desperation, and I think maybe sadness. She shrieked about the lack of help we’d provided. The beer was warm as the last of it trickled down my throat.
I pried myself off the wall and dragged my feet across the room, careful to avoid the eggshells littering the tile floor. There were more of them now than before.
She aimed for the dish-ware cabinet, her heeled ankle boots I swear creating shrill echoes when her feet slammed against the floor. I eyed my fuzzy sock-donned feet, quickly glancing up again as she thrust a bowl of mashed potatoes into my hands. The serving bowl was from our Polish pottery collection that Jill adored and I secretly hated. The dish felt cold in my hands and I winced at its quintessential little white circles that always reminded me of eyeballs.
I set the dish down on the table next to Jill and my sister’s spot, as Sierra finished the table settings. I retrieved the orange salad from the fridge and set that down too, next to the mashed potatoes. The stuffing and cranberry sauce were already waiting patiently in between my spot and Jill’s. Everything was in a dish from the Polish pottery collection. Matching. Picture perfect.
The light was so damn bright.
I scampered to the switch and slyly nudged the dimmer, just a tiny bit — and immediately earned an outburst from her as she returned from the kitchen with the gravy boat. Fuck, her mood had already passed the threshold of dissatisfaction and agitation and into dangerous irrational anger territory.
I felt a flicker of indignant frustration in my core, felt it rise almost as if it was bile in the back of my throat. Right on schedule. I swallowed and took a breath.
I noticed the glaringly absent hot pad for the mashed potatoes the split second after she did. Her face was already red and expertly contorted into a scream as I scrambled out of my stupid, antiquated wooden chair, the legs screeching against the tile, and made a beeline to the kitchen to grab one. Sierra glared at me, an all-knowing look that confirmed what I already knew. Attempts to apologize, reason, or generally diffuse the situation were to be futile.
In the daytime when the light is off, you can truthfully barely see the burn mark from the mashed potatoes. But at dinnertime, the detestable yellow light beams onto the wooden table as if the now-infamous half-circle ring was the fucking Swan Queen. As if it was the burn mark who experienced constant interrogation and anxiety and fear, in the spotlight of her wrath.
I personally avoid sitting at the kitchen table whenever I’m back at my childhood house, but not because of the mashed potatoes burn mark. I never liked sitting there anyway.
