My grandmother was a wealth of knowledge.  Part of that came from long years, but part of it came from being a careful student of behaviors and people.  She was great at passing along life’s lessons, and she was a great story teller.

One of my favorite stories started when one of my brother’s started thinking complaining about things that didn’t even happen yet - he was being pessimistic, which for someone like my grandmother that had survived a long ocean voyage from the old country, the Great Depression, two World Wars, and numerous other crisis and calamities - and yet never complained, and still managed to be optimistic, was an irritation.

She managed to steer the conversation to food, which with four grandsons, was admittedly a popular subject with us.  Grandma could cook.

“Ya know,” Grandma started, “I know you kids never waste anything on your plates, but there was a story back from before I could remember in the old country about a family who had a beautiful flock of geese.”

“For every holiday, they had a good goose dinner.  All of the neighbors were jealous, but they had worked hard to grow and breed that flock of geese, so they deserved it.”

“One day the woman walked out, and all of the geese were laying dead in their farm yard.  They were devastated, but what could you do?  You didn’t know what they had died from, so they didn’t want to keep the meat, just in case they had been poisoned.”

“They did what they could - they took the geese, plucked all of the feathers off of them to make quilts and pillows, and threw the geese on the garbage pile…..”

“On the same garbage pile they had thrown all of the husks from the poppyseed they had harvested the day before.” Grandma said with a bit of foreshadowing in her voice.

Perhaps my older brother’s knew what was coming next, but us younger ones were in rapt attention, whether it was the dead geese or the wasted meat is still unanswered…

“The next day,” grandma continued, “they woke up to the geese running around their yard - naked as a jay bird.”

We all laughed.  The geese had gotten into the poppy husks, essentially a crude form of opium, and it had slowed their heart and vital signs to unperceptable levels.  The thought of a flock of naked geese running around a farm yard we all found exceptionally funny.

But there was some lessons in it too.  First of all, don’t be too negative.  The geese were fine -and it was easy to jump to the worst case scenario, it wasn’t the right one.  The second lesson, take care of your things - grandma had grown up in near poverty, the thought of not watching something like a flock of domestic geese properly was nearly a crime in her book.  Finally, I think more for the older boys at the time - stay away from drugs, or you were likely to get plucked clean!

Rushing to get my will and financial house in order, the news came through on Friday - the visa was done and I was free to book my flight. I had already planned to go home for the weekend before the big move, it was going to be a time to rest and recharge before the final push to last couple of days before the move.  But this would be the final time at home with Dad for the next twelve months.I was a lost somewhere between the fog of the past and the promise of the future.  Between the glories of what was, the joy of the present, and the hope of things to come.

On Saturday, my brother Tom, sister-in-law Mary, and my two favorite nieces (also my only nieces) came over to spend the afternoon and evening with me.

It’s always good to see them - and even better when they cook.  Dad and I aren’t bad in the kitchen, but they are decidedly better.

The stress of the move was still there.

With a beautiful afternoon out side for early November, I decided that I needed a walk outside.

My niece Abby decided to join me for a stroll down the road.

For most of my life, the long, straight road that ran past our farm was a place to walk and think.  Today was no different, except Abby was there to listen, and question.

We walked and we talked.  We looked at the corn fields - even walking in to take a look at the damage from the weather (peeling back the corn husks was like opening up a bag of skittles…there was a rainbow on every cob thanks to the mold).  We talked about school and how her classes were going.  We talked about Australia.  We talked about her sister.  We talked about the history of our farm and her grandparents, and her great grandparents.  We talked about her cell phone.  We told jokes.  We told stories.  We commented on the tractors and combines slowly working the fields around us.

For an hour, we talked and conversed.

As we were walking back up to the house in the early evening twilight, I said, “Abby, stop and breath in the air - what do you smell?”

“The country.” She replied simply.

“Yeah, but can’t you smell the dust from the combines?  The scent of the dry leaves?  The smell of the freshly turned earth?  The coolness of the breeze?”  I asked expectantly.

“Sure.  I guess.” She replied.

Walking another couple of steps, I stopped her again.

“What do you smell?” I asked.

“Uncle Mark, we just did this.”  She replied with a hint of frustration.

“Just stop and tell me what you smell.”  I urged.

She stopped and took a deep breath….just about the time that I let go of a load and long string of gas.

We both about fell over with laughter.

Hey, I am her uncle and need to teach her these things….

 It started as a rummage sale.  That first year, they debated if they were ever going to have it again.  They had junk.  The Knights of Columbus Hall was filled with junk.  Some very good stuff mixed in - but people did drop off a lot of junk.  They sorted and filled boxes for good will - and the rest went into a dumpster out back.

That first year of the fund raiser was a bad one for the local Minnesota Citizen’s Concerned for Life, the pro-life group that my mother was an active participant in - the rummage sale was not a good idea.  The timing seemed excellent - the first weekend of deer season (all of the “hunting widows” were looking for a little way to spend some money).  The location seemed right - none of the surrounding towns had an event that weekend.  And people seemed willing to come through the door and support the cause, or at least buy a little something and socialize.

But it was just too much work.

At the next meeting, they debated what they should do, fold it up, or continue on.

“A rummage sale is too much work and we get too much junk.” One of the members commented, “How about a craft sale?”

And so it happened.

My mother volunteered that first year to take care of the food stand.  That first week of November, she was browning hamburger, making bars, lining up potato salad, buying chips and pop, and scrambling to make sure that there was help ready to go.

After chores that Saturday morning, Dad dropped us kids off at the KC Hall - we were the back up help…just in case.

We were pressed into service - serving up Sloppy Joes, handing out pop, serving up potato salad, refilling coffee pots.

By the end of the day, we were all tired - and Mom the most out of all of us.

“I don’t think I’m going to volunteer to do this again!”  Mom lamanted to the other organizers.

She said the same thing the following year.  And the next year.  And the year after that.  She said it when the craft show out grew the KC Hall and they moved to the school.  And said it again for the three years after that.

For over ten years, she cooked and baked, and lined up help to serve food and help raise money for her most favorite of causes.  Always saying it was her last year to do it, but always pouring in time, and money, and effort.

When she was struck with cancer, she had to turn over the reigns, and one of her best friends, Carol, picked them up. 

That first year was a tough one on Mom - she still came in to eat, being pushed in a wheelchair now.  The BBQ’s were good, though not quite as good as our family remembered.  The potato salad was similar, though not the same.  They tried to give us our meals for free that year - but Mom was indignant - the money was going to help save children, there was no free lunch.

They then brought out a boquet of red roses.  The symbol of the pro-life cause.  Those Mom reluctantly, and humbly, accepted.

This weekend, I was back in the hometown, as I usually try to be the first weekend of deer hunting season, and Dad and I still make the trip in to have BBQ’s and potato salad.  Mom’s friend Carol is still working behind the counter - fifteen years later - and we are reminded, “You know Mary started this!”

Two years ago, I was asked if I would be interested in being an advisor for FarmHouse Fraternity at the University of Minnesota.  In my business eyed view of the world, I envisioned it as a great drain of time and energy that I should be pouring into my career and life.I knew the fraternity well.  I was an alumnus of FarmHouse at North Dakota State University and had known many of the men from the U of M Chapter during my tenure at the chapter up north.  I knew that back then, we still lived by the ideals that we claimed: Faith, Ambition, Reverence, Morality, Honesty, Obedience, Unity, Service Excellence.  I knew that back then, we believe that you built the whole man five ways: Spiritually, Morally, Intellectually, Socially, and Physically.

As we get older, I think we get a warped view of the younger generation.  People generally assume that they don’t know how to work, that their moral fabric is decaying, that they are less respectful to one another and certainly towards their elders - and they didn’t care.

Originally, they discussed with me that all they would ask if I would commit one Monday night a month, or more if I was able.  To be quite honest, I think by the end of it, they got sick of seeing me every Monday night.

Every week I was amazed by their thoughtful considerations of important topics concerning the chapter.  Every week there seemed to be some pressing issue from one side of how they ran the fraternity - either from a business standpoint, a brotherhood standpoint, or from a point of view of a self governing body.

Every week, I’d have to sit on my hands - wanting to guide them in making the right decision.

And every week, they would end up making the right call on these key decisions - with a keen balance of business acumen, compassion, and a sharp sense of what was right and wrong with never a word of input from their advisor.  Each week they proved they lived what they spoke.

And it was a fun group to boot!

There would be a fair amount of laughing and joking.  There would be some serious political and economic conversations.  There would be conversations about classes, about families, about jobs, about sports and extracurricular activities.

Far from being a place where I would have to grudgingly spend my time once a week - it was something that I looked forward to each week.  I relished the fact that there were still a place were integrity, and honesty, and brotherhood, and compassion were not just spoken about, but believed and practiced as a way of life.  In the cynical world that we live in, it was a respite once a week to go to a place that held on to the high ideals of chivalry and gallantry - and had fun doing it!

As much as I look forward to my travels to Australia, there are those things that you leave with a sense of regret - my father, my brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews, my friends - but there is also a place reserved for the men of FarmHouse at the University of Minnesota.

When I resigned by post as advisor, it was with the knowledge that they had advisors whose wisdom and world experience far outstripped my own - Dr. Peterson’s ability to cut to the heart of issues and point the men in the right direction constantly left me speechless.  The Housemother, Mary Ann Bannerman, had a mother’s wisdom, understanding, and heart big enough to share.

But perhaps more importantly, the men of FarmHouse had each other as brothers.  They had the collective knowledge, compassion, sense of fairness, belief in right and wrong, and the ambition to change the world…with the wisdom to know that process first starts with themselves.

Walking out of the house the last time, it was with a bit of guilt, I had recieved much more then I ever could have given.

Almost every week for the last two years, I’ve gotten a free supper once a week from the men of FarmHouse Fraternity.  Serving as their advisor meant that I had the pleasure of giving a few words of wisdom at each of their meetings - and in return I got to eat some of their home cooked meals.As a commodity trader, I thought it was a bit unfair - it wasn’t right for me to swap a few words for the full home cooked meal that was served week in and week out…but I also wasn’t going to turn down the arrangement…what can I say, the food was good.

After I announced my resignation due to my move down under, I thought it only fitting that I cook a meal for them in return.

There is something basic about cooking a meal.  It is an act of nourishment, it is an act of service.

So cooked I did.  I will admit, I’m not that good, but once in a while, especially when it involved a grill, it is kind of fun.  Though a novice in the kitchen, I could even handle the beef tenderloin and the wild rice.  Sure there were six foot flames shooting out from under the grill.  Sure the outside was blackened to a crisp.  Sure I lost most of the hair on my arms.  Sure it also thinned out my eyebrows.  It still tasted pretty good.

As far as the wild rice, that is a pretty easy thing to cook…its just like making Holy Water…you boil the heck out of it.

At the end of the meal, they asked me to say a few words….but the words didn’t come.  I think they expected something wise and profound…and they got a few mumbles.

Later that night, I read something from the Paul’s Letter to the Romans, that in a few lines summed up everything that I had so feebly tried to tell these men over the last two years:

“For just as we have many members in one body and all the members do not have the same function, so we, who are many, are one body in Christ, and individually members one of another.

Since we have gifts that differ according to the grace given to us, each of us is to exercise them accordingly: if prophecy, according to the proportion of his faith;  if service, in his serving; or he who teaches, in his teaching; or he who exhorts, in his exhortation; he who gives, with liberality; he who leads, with diligence; he who shows mercy, with cheerfulness.

Let love be without hypocrisy.  Abhor what is evil; cling to what is good.

 Be devoted to one another in brotherly love; give preference to one another in honor; not lagging behind in diligence, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord; rejoicing in hope, persevering in tribulation, devoted to prayer, contributing to the needs of the saints, practicing hospitality.

 Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse.

Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep.

Be of the same mind toward one another; do not be haughty in mind, but associate with the lowly.  Do not be wise in your own estimation.

Never pay back evil for evil to anyone.  Respect what is right in the sight of all men.

If possible, so far as it depends on you, be at peace with all men.”

I was hoping for a quiet weekend at Dad’s.  The farm is a sanctuary for me, a normally quiet place filled with good memories.  It is big enough so that you can wonder through the trees and fields, but small enough so that you can always find your way back.Then my brother informed me that they would be having dinner (aka the noon meal) at their house and Dad was coming over too.  It would be good since we were all going to my niece’s play that evening (she was the Cheshire Cat in the story book play Alice in Wonderland).

There went my quiet Saturday on the farm.

Pulling up into his driveway with Dad and my sister in tow, something seemed amiss.  One week before Halloween, the corn stalks and the pumpkins were right in season…but the Santa seemed a little out of place.

Walking into the house, the first thing that caught my eye was the Christmas tree.  Yes, a Christmas tree the end of October.  While that may not be uncommon in a retail store, in my family, it is controversial if it should go up Thanksgiving weekend or not.

Then, to my wondering eyes were the placemats on the table…Halloween.  And Thanksgiving.  And Christmas.  And New Years.  And Valentines Day.  And St. Patrick’s Day.  And Easter.  And Fourth of July.  And a couple of Happy Birthday’s thrown in to boot.  Around the placemats were a hodge podge of various holiday napkins thrown in for good effect.

The counter was covered in food.  Easter Eggs, Christmas Cookies, Shamrock cookies, Halloween cookies.  There were the old traditional family favorites - the koblaha, fudge, honey cookies, and my personal favorite, turtle bars.  There was cranberry sauce.  The smell of Turkey roasting and bread baking also set off the senses.  A big jello cake in the shape of an American Flag colored the array with patriotic fervor fit for Flag Day, Memorial Day, or the 4^th of July.

Then there were the candy dishes.  In the Christmas dish were the filled raspberries.  In the Easter dish were the jelly beans and pastel chocolates.  In the Halloween candy dish was candy corn.

Santa Claus center pieces graced one table, Halloween covered the other, while ceramic Pilgrim’s looked stoicly forward.

“We figured since you weren’t going to be here for any of the holidays’ we should just celebrate them all at one!” Brother Tom said.

Celebrate we did.

It was a feast set for a king, a good hearty Midwestern holiday meal.  But more important then the food, more important the feasting, more important then the tree and the napkins and the ceramic Pilgrims was being together with family.  That is what I was going to miss most in my one year journey overseas - my Dad and my brother and sister, the sister-in-laws, the nieces and the nephews.  Sure, I’ll crave the filled raspberries and the turtle bars, but the family is what it is all about.

“Happy Thanchreastpatvalenbirjuly*!”  my niece’s Sarah and Abby shouted.

Happy Thanchreastpatvalenbirjuly indeed I thought.  Happy Thanchreastpatvalenbirjuly to all.

*note: Thanks to my nieces who gave me the name of the holiday.  They had it pronounced and created the day of the event, but I had to formally request that they send me the name in written format.  Lucky it only took 20 requests and stern and repeated parental involvement to get it done…

(Tom Jirik wrote columns in several newspapers in Iowa from the late 1980’s to the mid 1990’s.  This column originally appeared in the The Boone Today) 

A light snow was falling, spiraling out of the black sky.  Clouds of steam rose from the fans crowded onto the bleachers.  Those that couldn’t find a space on the crowded bleachers carved out seats for themselves on the snowplows that ringed the gridiron.

Out of the field little puffs of steam drifted out from under helmets as the players did their warm-up exercises.

By kick-off, the temperature had dropped to two below zero and the wind was beginning to pick up.  By the end of the first quarter, the wind chill was at 25 below and dropping as the wind steadily increased.

It’s playoff time for high school football in Minnesota.

My alma mater, Mahnomen High, was in the playoffs again this year.  The school’s been a football powerhouse for two decades and head coach Ken Bauman is one of the Minnesota State High School League’s winningest coaches.

This season featured another string of successes.  The weekend before Thanksgiving Mahnomen played the state semifinal game on its home field.  I’ve already described the weather conditions at that game for you.

Did I mention that six inches of snow had to be swept off the field before the game?

I was one of the few guys in my high school who never played football.  I’ve always admired those who did.

Mahnomen has always played a brutal form of football.  The team relies on size and power to inch the ball down the field a yard at a time.  The strategy wins games for the Indians.

There’ve been a few great passers in Mahnomen’s history.  But when postseason play runs past Thanksgiving and you’re playing in the great outdoors of northern Minnesota, passers and receivers lose some of their effectiveness. 

No, Mahnomen’s game is slow, methodical and successful.

Mahnomen won the state championship once, back in 1980.  The team won it in one of the last outdoor high school football championship games played in Minnesota.  Shortly after that game, Hubert H, Humphrey Metrodome opened in Minneapolis and the championship games have been played there ever since.

This year wasn’t much different from several near-misses since the 1980 game.  The Indians went home with a second-place trophy and memories of a disappointing 7-14 score emblazoned across across the Metrodome’s massive scoreboard at the end of the game.

Yes, it’s a great thrill for the players to play on the same field where the Vikings and the University of Minnesota’s Gophers face their foes.  But every time Mahnomen goes to “The Dome,” it comes home as a losing team.

I think it’s the weather.  There’s no snow.  No wind.  No sleet.  It’s a perfect 80 degrees on the field.  Mahnomen’s teams aren’t used to that kind of climatic perfection.  Adverse weather conditions have become a part of the game to them.  Take away the snow and the sleet and the sub-zero temperatures and part of the game is gone.

Most players will pooh-pooh my theory.  (If football players pooh-pooh.)  “Football is football, no matter where you play it and no matter what the weather is,” they’ll say.

I’m not so sure.

Ask any Mahnomen football alumnus about his glory days and his reminiscence will start off with,” I remember one game, it was sooo cold…” or ” It rained so hard during the game that the visibility was too bad to try a field goal.”

Some purists abhor artificial turf.  Some traditionalists shudder at the very thought of baseball indoors.  Don’t even talk about those lights at Wrigley field or the instant replay rule in today’s professional football.

As for me, I think the Minnesota high school football championship game should be played in International Falls when there’s at least a foot of snow on the ground.  They should delay the game until New Year’s Day if necessary.

Then Mahnomen will start winning the Big One.  Think of the memories those players have.  “I remember the championship game of 1990.  We had to buy snowmobile boots with cleats…..”

In the meantime, I’ll fondly reflect on my memories of high school band.  “I remember it was sooooo cold during the “Star Spangled Banner” at one game that my mouthpiece froze to my….”

(Tom Jirik wrote columns in several newspapers in Iowa from the late 1980’s to the mid 1990’s.  This column originally appeared in the The Boone Today) 

Mary and I are wafflers.  Should we do this?  Or shouldn’t we?

We haven’t been to a live concert in ages mainly because we could never decide whether or not we wanted to spend the money for tickets.

“I think we should go,” I say,” We deserve to treat ourselves.”
“I don’t know,” Mary responds.  “Look at the balance in the checkbook.”

“Maybe you’re right,” I agree.  “We can always go to another one when we have a little more money.”

“Oh, but I really want to go,” Mary responds.

We continue the discussion until we hear on the radio that the concert is sold out.

“Well, I guess that settles that,” I say.

“It’s probably just a well,” Mary responds.  And so it goes.

Uncharacteristically, we finally agreed to buy tickets for a concert before the tickets actually went on sale.  We were both excited to see Billy Joel in concert at Hilton Coliseum in Ames on Dec. 1.  Tickets went on sale Saturday morning at 10 a.m.

I was out the door by 7 a.m. And standing in line in the frigid northeast wind by 7:30 at the Iowa State University ticket office waiting to buy concert tickets.  I was amazed at the number of people already there.  I expected some, but there were hundreds.  I heard the earliest arrivals showed up shortly before noon on Friday.  Iowans are more ardent Billy Joel fans than I expected.

By 8 a.m. My fingers and toes were beginning to turn numb.  I should have worn snow boots and mittens rather than boat shoes and gloves.  But the people were friendly.  We discussed our work and childhood and our respective backgrounds.  We tried to convince each other that we had done the right thing.  “Ordering by phone can be pretty risky.  The phone lines are always busy,” we decided.  “And the lines move so slow at Younkers and at the other ticket outlet, ” we agreed.

By 9:30 a real camaraderie had begin to develop.  The people who spent the night out there together will probably write each other letters for life if their fingers ever thaw out.

At 10 the ticket office opened for business and the ticket line started snaking forward.

At 10:30 the first rumor came rumbling back through the line. “Tickets are selling fast. They’re already selling seats way up in the balcony.”

At 10:45 the next rumor came rolling back.  “There are still some good seats left.  The people who just left have tickets on the front row of the parquet.”

The rumors came and went.  Some were good.  Some were bad.  At 11 a.m. The main rumor was that the only seats left were behind the stage.  The scalpers started selling.

At 11:30 the ticket office announced that only single tickets were available.  The concert was nearly sold out. I was still 50 people from the door of the ticket office.

I took my frozen nose and my frozen toes back to Boone to tell Mary that I didn’t have the tickets.

“Well, that settles that,” she said.

“It’s probably just as well,” I responded.

“Yes, probably just as well,” she agreed.

We don’t celebrate enough any more.  As a society, we tend to forget about the need to spend time with each other, to remember the good times, to make new memories and new stories.In some ways, the Irish may have it right…as the old saying goes, the difference between an Irish wedding and an Irish wake is one less drunk person.  Our lives are meant to be celebrated with family and friends.

With my pending move to Australia and a kind offer from some friends, I was determined that there would be a celebration, not to mark my accomplishment, but more to thank my friends and family.  A chance to reminisce, to enjoy good food, good beverage, good conversation and good music.

Party we did.

With the help of my good friend, fraternity big brother, and darn good musician Dave, we had the music taken care of.  With the aid of my good friends Pat - with the moral support of his wife Katie and friends Geof and Amber - a suitable party room was booked at a local drinking establishment and invites were sent out, and finally with the guidance of the fine folks at Majors Sports Bar, we had the food booked.

The music kicked off about 7pm, Acoustic Addiction (my friend Dave’s band) were in fine form, as they always are, and the beverages started flowing and the people started coming.

There was family - lead by my nephew and Godson Parker, who was the life of the party, begging his Uncle Mark to hold him (where are all of the young single girls when you need them?), handing out pillows, and running around making friends of all in attendance.

There was a representative from my high school class - though it was a long time ago, my friend Jeremy made it back to wish me bon voyage.

There were FFA friends - Laura taking pictures that hopefully will never see the light of day.

There were college friends - my FarmHouse little brother Jed, my big brother Dave, and a handful of other fraternity brothers.

There were people from my life here in the big city - people who I’ve gotten know from organizations and activities, and in some cases mayhem and shenanigans (yes, that is you Scott).

There were people from work - stretching from when I started my career to now as I jump off to another continent.

Each face, each name, brought a different memory, about sixty folks in all - and they stretched across the entire span of my life.  From my youngest days (brother Jaime and I shared a bed for the first twelve year of my life) to the most recent….

Meaning the bachelorette party that escaped from the hustle and bustle of bar for the safety of our party room.  Just as our party was winding down about midnight, they asked for asylum.  Dave and Keith were not ones to turn the request of twelve fetching ladies in distress…despite or as a result of the scarves with fake female attributes that they wore around their necks.

They danced for the next two hours to the music of Acoustic Addiction, with those of us left in attendance joining in from time-to-time.  What a send off, what a party.

 Truth be told, I don’t like to cook.

Sure, I like to entertain, I like to make sure that people feel welcome, I believe that cooking a meal for a person is a basic act of service, of respect, of hospitality.

But that doesn’t mean that I have to like it.

I was  pressed into service long ago as a junior in high school.  My mother was the cook and chief bottle washer - and she did a good, no, a great job.  Her roasts were sublime.  Her vegetables always done just right.  Her potatoes done to perfection (creamy, but not runny), her gravy was a masterpiece (not runny, not lumpy, but just enough so that a well constructed mash potato dam could keep them at bay from the corn).

She could take simple left over’s and turn them into some great tasting hotdish that was as tasty as the previous meals.

I’m not sure if that was some secret mother’s cooking society that she belonged to where she learned it, or if it was just years of practice making it for the horde of ravenous wolves that were my brothers and I.

When she got sick, my father tried to pick up the mantle.

I’m not sure if he tried to mess it up as bad as he did to make either my sister or I step up, or if he was truly that inept.

I remember Mom shouting directions into my father as he explored the here-to-unknown confines of the kitchen…

“Just take the juice from the roast and bring it to a slow boil.  Mix a little flour and a little water and slowly stir it in - watch out for lumps!”  She directed from the chair in the living room.

Watching Dad it was horrifyingly comedic.  He brought the roast juices to a full, rolling boil, took a heaping spoonful of flour and dumped it in and let it go.

It set up like wet, heaving mass of brown dough.

Then she gave careful instructions on making mashed potatoes….

“Just take the potatoes when you can stick a fork through them, add a quarter of a stick of butter and just a touch of milk, then mash them.”

Watching Dad, will the gravy set up like concrete on the stove, he took a stick of butter and put it in the pan with the potatoes, then proceeded to pour half a picture of milk into the pan, then pounded away with the potato masher with gusto!

“This is good,” we lied.

“Then why are you pouring your mashed potatoes over your gravy!” Dad demanded.

The next Sunday, I made dinner and earned the top berth there after.  My family were demanding eaters, which is probably why I still cringe beyond anything outside of grilling.

My Dad’s cooking has improved by leaps and bounds.  My sister refused to learn to cook, so my dad had to learn or starve.

When I go home, I still take the turn by the stove, and while the family always seems to find something wrong with my cooking, we have yet to pour my mashed potatoes over the gravy.