A Dish Of Potatoes

(This story contains references to God and a tiny bit of swearing.)

“Pass the potatoes!” Ellie calls from the end of the table.

“Where’s the please?” Uncle Hank calls back. His hand hovers over the serving dish, the passing of the potatoes conditional on obeyance. From any other person, it could be made a light-hearted lesson – Ellie would learn some manners but would grin and be happy. From Uncle Hank, it’s the third degree.

Ellie holds out for a few moments; you can almost see the cogs whirring, the youngster weighing up the pros and cons of going up against the old man versus not getting her potatoes.

“Please,” she mumbles. We’re all hearing this, wincing but glad Ellie’s folded. Now we can get on with dinner. At least, we could if…

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” Uncle Hank says, raising his voice so that all other conversation stops and attention focuses on the two protagonists of this year’s first stand-off.

Uncle Hank’s my mother’s older brother; we tolerate him only because of that. If we met him in the street or in a bar and didn’t know him, he’d get short shrift for sure for his rudeness. From some here, though, I don’t doubt a short right to the jaw might also be on the cards. I include myself in that group.

The big problem with Uncle Hank is his toxicity. We always come to these gatherings upbeat, really wanting to get along, the previous year’s fallings-out forgotten. But it only takes a couple of words from that old bastard’s mouth to get the ball rolling on this year’s clashes.

“Don’t make her beg, Hank,” my mother says, her tone diplomatic.

“Too right!” says Ellie’s mother, my sister Renée, her tone the opposite.

Here it comes, I think to myself. And it does.

“I wouldn’t have to if you'd brought your child up better,” Uncle Hank mutters, ostensibly under his breath, but he’s partially deaf and doesn’t know how loud he can be.

“What did you say?” Renée growls, dropping her knife and fork to the table with a clatter.

Uncle Hank pretends now to be deafer than he is; he’s heard that all right.

“Leave it, love.” My brother-in-law puts a hand on Renée’s arm, trying to pour oil on the increasingly choppy waters. Carl’s a nice guy. Much too soft really, but I like him.

“Get your hand off me!” Renée spits, shaking Carl’s hand away. It’s obvious that this moment has little to do with potatoes and politeness. Carl’s hand joins the other on his lap. His face says Well, I tried.

Stewart is Uncle Hank’s son, my cousin. He’s a loud, opinionated boor – the apple never falls far from the tree, after all. He has to get involved.

“My dad’s right, Renée. I mean, he always brought us up proper, ain’t that right, sis?”

Mel, my other cousin at the dinner, has her mouth full of food already – she could eat for the USA at the Olympics could Mel – and simply nods.

Renée glares at them, no doubt mulling over a sharp come-back. Meanwhile, at the other end of the table, a small commotion has erupted.

“Mom, Danny’s taken my biscuit!” Ellie squeals.

Mel’s boy Danny is a mirror reflection of his mother, munching away on a mouthful of food and ignoring Ellie’s remonstration.

“Can’t you control your kid!” Renée snaps at Mel, who stops chewing momentarily to digest the affront. Her husband Dave is quicker off the mark.

“Now look here, Renée …”

But that’s as far as the defense of his wife and son goes; he’s not the sharpest needle in the sewing box, Dave.

“That’s right,” Mel says after swallowing the large bolus of whatever it was she’s been chewing. The impact of her agreement is lessened somewhat by there being nothing to agree with.

“Mom!” Ellie’s lower lip is quivering; tears won’t be far behind.

“All right, darling,” Renée says, softening her tone, then ratcheting it up again to address Uncle Hank. “Pass the biscuits down to Ellie.”

Here now are the two heavyweights at the table, isolated, head-to-head. The rest of us hold our breath.

Uncle Hank produces a smirk that somehow makes his ugly mug even uglier. He folds his arms.

Mel, who’s sitting next to him, reaches out to take the plate of biscuits, presumably to hand down to Ellie … or, knowing her, perhaps to grab a couple of biscuits for herself before they get beyond range. Uncle Hank shoots out a hand to stop her, grabbing her arm roughly.

“Ow!” Mel splutters, spitting out bits of food that she’s somehow managed to smuggle into her mouth without anyone noticing.

Uncle Hank says nothing. He just sits there smirking and folds his arms even tighter.

“So, who’s going to win this afternoon, Carl?” Every year, my mother keeps the football gambit up her sleeve to defuse situations just like this. Carl welcomes the chance to assist.

“Well–”

But that’s as far as he gets.

“Are you going to pass the potatoes and the biscuits to Ellie or what?” Renée hisses at Uncle Hank through gritted teeth.

Uncle Hank’s smirk seems carved into his face, and those arms just ain’t unfolding … unless anyone else tries to interfere with his machinations by passing the dishes down.

“For God’s sake!” Renée blurts out. That’s too much for my mother, who gets as angry as I’ve seen her since …well, last year at this time.

“Now, Renée, remember what day it is!”

Renée sits back in her chair, my mother’s simple argument enough to take the sting out of her attack. But she’s still able to fire off a neat put-down of Uncle Hank, in the form of a mutter that I think only I hear.

“Yeah, and I thank God I don’t have to live with the old goat.”

There’s a lull in hostilities, but we’re still in a stalemate. Ellie now needs the dish of potatoes and the plate of biscuits. And they’re both nearest to Uncle Hank, who’s proved with his assault on Mel’s arm that he’ll be guarding them with his life until he hears a satisfactory ‘please’ from my niece.

Now, every year I try to stay out of the inevitable squabbles on this day. It’s not my style and life’s too short. But this year’s edition is proving one of the most intense, and all I want to do is have a bit of peace and quiet while I fill my tummy, then fall asleep during the football. That’s my modest aim and it ain’t gonna happen without a lot of pain unless someone does something. That someone, I decide, will be me.

So I set out to try to throw a blanket over the chip-fryer fire that this dinner has become, using a joke I heard once.

“Uncle Hank?” I begin.

That gets his attention; I’ve rarely spoken at the Thanksgiving dinner table before. In fact, he may have wondered if I actually have vocal cords.

I wait for him to break his silence; deliberate pauses in an argument can carry surprising weight.

“What?” he says finally, unable to keep up the Tibetan-monk impression in the face of my steady gaze. Given the unexpected source of interaction, his smirk has disappeared.

“Pass the potatoes to Ellie. And then pass the biscuits.”

If eyes could pop out of a head just by glaring, then his would be halfway across the table like in some wacky cartoon. My mother’s mouth is agape, too; she’s never seen her boy this feisty. The others around the table look on as if they were watching a last-second attempt at a field goal for the match.

I can see Uncle Hank’s mind working. Who does this young waster think he’s talking to? And then there’s the smirk back; he’s sure of his tactics now, and they are to return to square one.

“Where’s the please?” he says, so … pleased with himself that he’d pat himself on the back but for his arthritic shoulders.

I pause again, milking the anticipation from the onlookers. Then I hit him with it.

“In the please station?”

There’s a moment while the joke’s absorbed, then it reaches brains and the coin drops, and laughter bursts out – like air from a dangerously over-inflated balloon.

In the instant that Uncle Hank’s concentration is broken by the hilarity – which I hope he takes personally – I get up off my seat, lean over, grab the plate of biscuits and the dish of potatoes, and take them to the other end of the table, placing them next to Ellie, who I pat gently on the head.

By the time I’m back in my seat, everyone’s tucking into their now-less-than-hot food. All except Uncle Hank, who stares at me, his eyes burning with what I can only imagine is pure hatred. And I know that I’ve made an enemy for life, though I’m reassured by an incontrovertible fact: we only have to see each other once a year.

For today, my attention is diverted to my plate, and another fact: that these potatoes really are something else.