The Mashed Potato War

Kids get in trouble over the craziest things. Who would ever even begin to imagine that two brothers would consistently get in trouble over a bowl of mashed potatoes? Mashed potatoes, those creamy white delectable sides born of the spud! The caviar of the country dinner table! Not since the Civil War had there been such a skirmish where brother took up arms against brother, both  marching to the beat of a different drum. I suppose if one of us had erected a statue in honor of the potato the other would have protested to have it torn down. How in the world could a bowl full of mashed potatoes be the cause of friction between two brothers?

This conflict I mention was between my brother, Michael Lee, not Robert E. , but Michael Lee Brady, and me, John Paul Brady. Of all the items on our mother’s dinner table mashed potatoes seemed to be the favorite for each of us. Knowing how the other one cherished and adored what was in that bowl there was a race to see who could first dip into it. When I was able to get the first helping I would dip out the biggest spoon full I could manage to get. Always my little brother would protest to our parents, “He’s getting all the potatoes!” If he happened to get his grubby little hand on the mashed potato spoon first I would threaten him with a beating if he took too many. Not too smart on my part because my dad very often excused me from the table, and when I finally got my mashed potatoes they were cold and somewhat sparse.

This kind of thing went on for some time. The battle lines were drawn every time mashed potatoes were served. I remember the day when that war ended; I remember it very well. On that day my mother happened to place the mashed potato bowl between Mike and me. That was a good thing for me, I thought. I was bigger and faster so I knew that first helping of mashed potatoes was mine. My dad had us bow our heads for the blessing on the food. He began his prayer, and as he was nearing the end of his prayer I began maneuvering myself to spring into action as soon as I heard “Amen”. I looked over to get my bearing, and to my surprise that fat little opponent of mine already had his dipping hand on that spoon. As soon as my dad began praying Mike had grabbed the mashed potato spoon waiting for the “ready, set, go, Amen!”

It was on that day of the Mashed Potato War the conflict ended. MP-Day had arrived. (Mashed Potato Day incase you were wondering) That was the day that the war became violent. The first casualties were recorded. Once again I overreacted. I couldn’t help it. The unspoken treaty had been broken. My brother had stepped out of bounds, and as far as I was concerned my only option was to attack. I grabbed Mikes spoon hand which was holding a hefty amount of mashed potatoes. As I jerked the spoon away from him mashed potatoes went flying hitting my mom and my dad. Mike's clumsy counter attack sent the bowl of mashed potatoes flying off the table and onto the floor leaving a big mess and a broken bowl, the best bowl that my mother owned. It was a terrible scene, but it ended quickly.

Apparently, my dad had had enough. Mike and I were apprehended and taken to the woodshed, so to speak. After peace terms were given and accepted by both parties the painful punishment was handed down. My mother had some rules of etiquette to which we had to abide. From that day forward Mike and I had to ask politely to have the mashed potatoes passed. After a time we would object, on occasion, about the amount of potatoes the other one was getting, but always when that happened we were reminded about the woodshed.