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Sunday, October 18, 2015

Hand-Mashed Potatoes

"Isn't it weird how food connects us to people?" She asked. "I make so many things because of my Grandmother."
Her husband whistled as he set the table for two placing a candle neatly to add something special. They were such a perfect fit he thought. The kids all grown could be sad , but nights like this the subtle conversation, the sparkle in her eyes reminded him of every magnificent year.
"I always hand mash my potatoes because that is the way she did it," she said."I think about her when I mash."
He sat down a bit winded his lungs reminding him of the years at the Mill.
"You know I like a black coffee sometimes at night because my Daddy and me used to have a coffee when we cleaned that big building together. We would go up on the roof; they had made it into a real fancy deck to entertain clients, and there we were just a modest guy from Northside and his son having a coffee, staring at the city on that fancy deck. I can still smell it."
She sat near her husband and rubbed his chest through his flannel calming his lungs and they waited for their dinner.