By Becky Tidberg
Marriage is an alliance entered into by a man who can't sleep with the window shut, and a woman who can't sleep with the window open.
~George Bernard Shaw
Mashed potatoes nearly ended my engagement. Every Sunday my fiancé's family would gather at "the farm" for dinner after church. His grandparents had lived there for years, doling out segments of land to their children who lived an easy shout away. The grandchildren lingered but were becoming independent: dating, preparing to marry, and starting careers.
Marriage is an alliance entered into by a man who can't sleep with the window shut, and a woman who can't sleep with the window open.
~George Bernard Shaw
Mashed potatoes nearly ended my engagement. Every Sunday my fiancé's family would gather at "the farm" for dinner after church. His grandparents had lived there for years, doling out segments of land to their children who lived an easy shout away. The grandchildren lingered but were becoming independent: dating, preparing to marry, and starting careers.
This was a bit of a change for me since mine was a city family. I'd lived in seven cities by the time I was in eighth grade. I saw my grandparents on rare special occasions. The only thing constant was change. Not only were we nomadic, we also dined. And when we dined, we dined out. By high school I could use chopsticks, loved hummus, and knew which wines complemented which entrées.
My fiancé's family ate. Lots. Sustenance over style. Food to keep you going from morning milking to moonlight harvest. On Sunday they would sit down to chickens that had been clucking just yesterday, or a roast with a name -- "No, this wasn't Betsy, it was Mildred. She's tastier." The accompanying beverage was always milk, butter was consumed by the stick, and cream came in pitchers instead of little flavored cups. "Low fat" was the grease at the bottom of the jar.
The dinner of deadly mashed potatoes began like any other. The meal was laid out in the minuscule farmhouse kitchen and the ten of us perched on mismatched chairs, the piano bench, and tall counter stools. Before us, an immense roast beast dominated the table, surrounded by side dishes covered by sauces that obscured any nutrients buried beneath.
Joining hands and bowing in prayer, we acknowledged the goodness of the giver, then served ourselves. I tried to stick to my city-folk diet of lean meat and steamed organic vegetables. Organic we could do. The garden outside the kitchen window was resplendent with flowers, fruit, and vegetables. I usually helped myself to beans and broccoli and then surreptitiously dabbed the butter and cheese sauce off with my napkin. I am, however, only human. The heavenly aroma of hand-mashed potatoes dripping with butter, while not worth selling my soul over, was worth a few extra miles on the treadmill so that my wedding dress would still fit.
"Honey," I asked my fiancé, "may I have a bite of your potatoes?"
"Sure." He slid his plate toward me.
I froze with my fork suspended above his plate as I admired the topography. It was a food-scaped replica of the rocky west. Layers of meat rose and fell in marbled hills, green sprigs of asparagus peeked from a cheesy field, and next to them was the crowning achievement, a massive lake flowing with dark gravy waves hemmed in by white potato hills.
If I had wanted to merely taste the buttery banks, disaster would have been averted. But what are mashed potatoes without gravy? Not thinking, I snatched a bite from the bank, broke the levy, and mixed the two together. It was the perfect meld and I chewed, eyes closed, until the velvety goodness slid down my throat, warming my stomach and my soul like no steamed veggie ever could.
When I opened my eyes, my fiancé was looking at me like I had just slaughtered the Grand Championship rooster.
"What have you done?" There was horror in his voice.
"What?" I hadn't done anything. Right?
"Look!" He gestured to his dinner where the broken dam was flooding his plate with muddy goodness. The northern half of the lake drained across his deteriorating landscape.
"So?" It's food. It all goes to the same place last I checked.
"You ruined my lake." He could barely speak as he watched the floodwaters head toward the green asparagus peaks.
Oh, the humanity!
"I'm sorry." My eyes brimmed with tears.
We finished the meal in silence and I was sure my fiancé would ask for his ring back as soon as we were alone. He had been too good to be true from the beginning. In heavy silence we walked the fields after dinner. One bean field, two cow pies, and ten cockleburs later, I could stand it no longer.
"Are you going to break up with me over mashed potatoes?"
He considered, for much too long, before answering. "No. Not this time. But from now on, don't mess with the lake."
Yes, mashed potatoes nearly ended my engagement. But I've since learned that a farm-raised man who will fight for a gravy-filled lake will fight even more heroically for his marriage and his family.
My fiancé's family ate. Lots. Sustenance over style. Food to keep you going from morning milking to moonlight harvest. On Sunday they would sit down to chickens that had been clucking just yesterday, or a roast with a name -- "No, this wasn't Betsy, it was Mildred. She's tastier." The accompanying beverage was always milk, butter was consumed by the stick, and cream came in pitchers instead of little flavored cups. "Low fat" was the grease at the bottom of the jar.
The dinner of deadly mashed potatoes began like any other. The meal was laid out in the minuscule farmhouse kitchen and the ten of us perched on mismatched chairs, the piano bench, and tall counter stools. Before us, an immense roast beast dominated the table, surrounded by side dishes covered by sauces that obscured any nutrients buried beneath.
Joining hands and bowing in prayer, we acknowledged the goodness of the giver, then served ourselves. I tried to stick to my city-folk diet of lean meat and steamed organic vegetables. Organic we could do. The garden outside the kitchen window was resplendent with flowers, fruit, and vegetables. I usually helped myself to beans and broccoli and then surreptitiously dabbed the butter and cheese sauce off with my napkin. I am, however, only human. The heavenly aroma of hand-mashed potatoes dripping with butter, while not worth selling my soul over, was worth a few extra miles on the treadmill so that my wedding dress would still fit.
"Honey," I asked my fiancé, "may I have a bite of your potatoes?"
"Sure." He slid his plate toward me.
I froze with my fork suspended above his plate as I admired the topography. It was a food-scaped replica of the rocky west. Layers of meat rose and fell in marbled hills, green sprigs of asparagus peeked from a cheesy field, and next to them was the crowning achievement, a massive lake flowing with dark gravy waves hemmed in by white potato hills.
If I had wanted to merely taste the buttery banks, disaster would have been averted. But what are mashed potatoes without gravy? Not thinking, I snatched a bite from the bank, broke the levy, and mixed the two together. It was the perfect meld and I chewed, eyes closed, until the velvety goodness slid down my throat, warming my stomach and my soul like no steamed veggie ever could.
When I opened my eyes, my fiancé was looking at me like I had just slaughtered the Grand Championship rooster.
"What have you done?" There was horror in his voice.
"What?" I hadn't done anything. Right?
"Look!" He gestured to his dinner where the broken dam was flooding his plate with muddy goodness. The northern half of the lake drained across his deteriorating landscape.
"So?" It's food. It all goes to the same place last I checked.
"You ruined my lake." He could barely speak as he watched the floodwaters head toward the green asparagus peaks.
Oh, the humanity!
"I'm sorry." My eyes brimmed with tears.
We finished the meal in silence and I was sure my fiancé would ask for his ring back as soon as we were alone. He had been too good to be true from the beginning. In heavy silence we walked the fields after dinner. One bean field, two cow pies, and ten cockleburs later, I could stand it no longer.
"Are you going to break up with me over mashed potatoes?"
He considered, for much too long, before answering. "No. Not this time. But from now on, don't mess with the lake."
Yes, mashed potatoes nearly ended my engagement. But I've since learned that a farm-raised man who will fight for a gravy-filled lake will fight even more heroically for his marriage and his family.
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