Thanksgiving at Granma's of course. But Granma was getting a bit feeble. In the old days she wanted to do it all, but now she was happy to let others do it - even the gravy.
Her daughter Flora did most of it. Cranberry sauce. Dressing. Self basting turkey with a pop-up indicator. Pumpkin pie from Safeway.
``You do the mashed potatoes,'' Flora told her daughter Tessa.
Tessa was twenty-four. Tall and loud. She'd never cooked a thing but she figured it was easy enough if you had instructions. She got out Joy of Cooking. It looked simple enough.
``Don't do them too soon,'' her mother said, ``they don't taste as good if they wait.''
In the end the whole family had to wait for the potatoes. Tessa hadn't realized peeling took so long.
``Some people leave the peel on,'' she said.
``Not in my house,'' said Granma.
When the mashed potatoes were done Tessa thought they looked pretty dull. Whiteish. They tasted bland. She added garlic powder. A container of Parmesan. She tasted. Not bad.
They still looked awful. She took blue coloring and stirred in a spoonful. Much better. Perhaps another spoonful.
``Hurry up with the spuds!'' Uncle Henry yelled from the dining room. Her mother came in with a wine glass in her hand. She looked at the potatoes.
``My God!'' she said.
``They taste good,'' said Tessa.
Flora dipped a finger into the bowl and tasted.
``My God,'' she said.
Tessa carried the dish of blue mashed potatoes into the dining room. Stunned silence.
``My God,'' said Granma, ``Blue mashed potatoes in my house!''
Every one agreed they didn't taste bad. Except Granma. She said nothing. She got up from the table meaning to shut herself in her bedroom in silent protest, but A voice in her head said, Oh lighten up, Sally, so she sat back down again.
Tessa said she'd do the turkey next Thanksgiving.