The Yams

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Last year, I forgot the damn yams.

Jerry and I had been married for a couple of months, and it was my first Thanksgiving visiting his family. We had not been dating long enough the year before that for me to have gone to his family’s for the holiday. After we got married we had a long discussion about holidays. My family won Christmas, and his won Thanksgiving. And that was fine by me. Besides, the way he told it, Thanksgiving was really an important holiday to his folks, so it worked out just fine.

Until we went to the first one.

I asked Jerry to find out what I should bring. And, I guess something got lost in translation, because Jerry told me that his mom said, “Tell her to bring the potatoes.” Well, I thought nothing of it, and I made some mashed potatoes. I made them from scratch with butter and garlic and sour cream. The works.

When we showed up at Jerry’s parents, I warmly greeted Susan, my mother-in-law, and asked if I could heat them up. She said that I needn’t bother; she’d take care of it. The trouble began when she looked at the dish.

“Oh, I thought you were bring the sweet potatoes,” she said, an unmistakeable layer of disappointment covering her words.

“Jerry said to bring potatoes. I must have misunderstood,” I said, looking to my husband. He just shrugged. He’s not a rock of bravery, that man.

“No, no. It’s…fine,” his mother said. “Join the others in the den. We’ll have everything ready in about a half hour. That will give me plenty of time to warm up the sw….mashed potatoes.”

Jerry and I went into the den, and talked with his father, Mike, and two siblings - an older brother (Eric) and a younger sister (Clarice). Jerry’s father’s brother, Uncle Ricky sat in a recliner. He was much older than my father-in-law, and I had never really talked much to him. He always seemed kind of angry. Not a screamer or like a belligerent drunk type. Just kind of a low, simmering madness at all times. My father-in-law’s parents lived out west, and usually did Thanksgiving with other relatives out there. They got Christmas, it seems, who our bargaining was nothing unusual.

Susan’s parents were there. They were pleasant, but kind of quiet. I always felt I had to draw sentences out of them, almost by force. Jerry was no help. He spent most of the time talking to his siblings and leaving me to fend for myself. But everything was going just fine until Uncle Ricky spoke up.

“Well, Mary,” he said to me, “Susan tells us you were going to bring the yams. Did you do them like baked potatoes or make a casserole?”

“Oh, no. I misunderstood and brought mashed potatoes.”

Every single person in the room stopped talking and swiveled their heads to look at me.

“Excuse me, did you say you brought mashed potatoes and not sweet potatoes?” Susan’s father asked. It may have been the longest sentence I had ever heard from her.

“Yes, just a mix-up.”

“Do you want me to run out and get some sweet potatoes?” Eric asked with more than a hint of distress.

“There’s no time! It’s too late! I knew we should not have trusted an outsider with the yams,” Uncle Ricky said, scorn oozing from each word.

“Well, I meant no harm. The mashed potatoes are pretty good,” I said. I look to Jerry. He simply stared at his shoes.

“No harm!” Ricky said, bolting up. “No harm! You’ve ruined Thanksgiving! You’ve ruined this whole year!”

“Well, that….”

“You fool woman,” Susan’s mother said. “There’s no coming back from this.”

“Jerry, tell them what happened,” I said. He didn’t move. “Jerry!”

“Oh, yeah, I guess she just misunderstood. I should have checked. It’s my fault,” Jerry said sheepishly.

Clarice grabbed her brother’s arm and said, “It’s good of you to try to protect your wife, but she has to own up to this. Not you.”

Jerry nodded and looked back down at the floor.

I could not believe what was happening. It was just sweet potatoes, but they were all acting like I’d set off a stink bomb in the house. Maybe worse.

I stood there silently as some of them glowered at me and others - my husband included - tried to avoid my gaze.

Susan walked in from the kitchen. “Let’s all make our way to the dining room. Thanksgiving dinner is served. I’m afraid we don’t have any sweet potatoes this year,” she said, staring daggers into me.

“Mary’s mashed potatoes are good. You may be surprised.”

“That’s enough, son,” Jerry’s father barked.

“I’m just saying…”

“Enough!”

Jerry again looked at me with that meek look that was a combination of giving an apology while demanding one. I think that’s when I knew we were done.

We went to the formal dining room, and Susan’s father, who was a deacon in his church, led the prayer.

“Lord, we thank you for the blessings of family and fellowship. We thank you for the bounty of goodness you provide us with each year, each day. Give us the strength to do that which is right. And give us the strength to forgive those who fail us and fail you by forgetting those things that are important. Even sweet potatoes.”

“Amen!” bellowed Uncle Ricky.

We ate our dinner. No one spoke to me. No one ate the mashed potatoes. As the meal ended, Jerry said we needed to go to take care of something. No one even pretended to protest. Uncle Ricky simply said, “Yes, I think that is best. None of us can say we’ve enjoyed this yamless holiday..”

As we were leaving, Susan stopped me.

“Don’t forget your mashed potato serving dish,” she said handing me the full container.

“Oh, thank you.”

“Get it right next time, or don’t come back, okay?” she said.

I was angry and sad and confused, and I just bolted to the car on the verge of tears. Jerry hugged his mother and then followed sheepishly after me.

When the card door closed, I said, “What was that, Jerry!”

“How could you not make sweet potatoes. No one makes mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving.”

“A lot of people do, Jerry. My family does.”

“So that’s the gold standard?”

“If it was so important why didn’t you tell me. Why didn’t you even check what I was bringing.”

“It didn’t occur to me that I needed to. You’re smarter than that. I thought you were, anyway.”

He started the car and we pulled off.

We drove in silence the rest of the way home. When we pulled into the driveway, he cut off the engine. and got out of the car. He leaned down and talked to me through his door. “It’s probably better if you avoid my family until next Thanksgiving. They’re good people. They’ll give you a second chance. But until then, well, maybe it’s just best to stay away.”

Jerry closed the car door and walked towards the house.

I sat there clutching the white CorningWare dish, and I started to cry alone in the driveway.

***** 

Of course I considered divorce. How could Jerry have done this to me. He should have defended me, certainly. But it was worse. He took their side. Our marriage suffered. Our communication - as well as all other contact - was limited.

When family events rolled around, Jerry went without me.

I felt alone, confused and angry. But I ultimately decided I would not let yams destroy my life. So, I resigned myself, apologized to Jerry for my foolish ways, and acted as if that Thanksgiving dinner was firmly in the past.

Of course, it never was. This family had humiliated me. They ostracized me. And for what? Sweet potatoes? It was unconscionable, as was my husband’s reaction. Was he just cowed by his family, or did he just have so little regard for me as his wife. As a person? It kept me awake and in tears for a long time.

Until I decided that I had to move past it. And, so, I decided to do just that.

For several months, things with Jerry were strained, certainly. But I made it clear that I would not divorce him, and that I would make it all right the next time.

A week before the next Thanksgiving, Jerry told me his mother had called. She specifically asked me to bring the sweet potatoes.

I told Jerry I would, and that I wanted him to tell his mother I appreciated the opportunity to make things right.

I asked Jerry if there was a family recipe that I should follow. He said there was not, and that I should do whatever I wanted, but he did warn that Uncle Ricky really did prefer a casserole over baked yams.

I told him I completely agreed.

So, I did some research to find just the right recipie, and made sweet potato casserole with pecans, cinnamon, nutmeg, brown sugar and all the other ingredients to make it special. When it was done, I showed it to Jerry.

“It looks perfect. You’ve done the right thing,” he said.

I smiled and wrapped the glass pan with aluminum foil and off we went to his parents.

Susan greeted us at the door again. She took the pan from me and peeked under the foil. She smiled and said, “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Go on, see the others. We’ll eat soon.”

The second we walked into the den, Uncle Ricky pointed at me and said, “Little Miss Mashed Potatoes! You’re back.”

I nodded.

Eric looked at me and said, “I hope you learned your lesson!”

I said, “Oh yes. I did. Nothing but sweet potatoes this year. In a casserole even.”

“Good for you,” Susan’s father said. Her mother just nodded.

Clarice walked up to me and said, “I hope you know what you did to this family last year. I hope you have made up for it.”

I assured her that I had. I looked to Jerry. He avoided looking at me. No surprise there.

Shortly thereafter, Susan came in and led us to the dining room. Her father again gave the prayer.

“Lord, we thank you for the blessings of family and fellowship. We thank you for the bounty of goodness you provide us with each year, each day. We thank you for letting even the most wayward sinner see the light and realize what is important. We thank you for letting the wretched fools see the error of their ways and atone, and for letting your most lowly find a path to peace.”

“Amen!” said Ricky.

They all looked at me and I bowed my head. “Amen,” I said in a meek and soft voice.

“Well, I say we dig in,” Jerry’s father said. “Would someone be so kind as to pass those sweet potatoes?”

Jerry picked up the dish and passed it to him. He put a scoop on his plate, and each one of them took a heaping spoonful. I took a small helping and set the dish down.

“Isn’t this nice,” Susan said.

Everyone agreed it was.

As we started to eat, Jerry piped up first. “Aren’t Mary’s sweet potatoes great?”

“Oh, marvelous,” Susan said.

“I couldn’t agree more,” his father said.

Clarice and Eric complimented them, and Susan’s parents simply nodded.

“They’re fine. They’ll do,” Ricky said.

Jerry leaned over, “You did it, honey. They accept you again.”

I took a deep breath and smiled.

Clarice was the first to start coughing a moment later. Mike was right behind her, and quick as a wink, everyone around the table began. Clarice dropped her fork with a loud clatter onto her plate, as she reached for her throat. Then, all of them seemed to forget how to breath and one by one they collapsed, clawing at their throats as if they could pull out an invisible obstruction. Jerry fell off his chair and hit his head with a thud. Others of them lurched off their chairs and collapsed on the table or floor. Uncle Ricky face-planted onto his plate. I couldn’t see, but I imagined he landed in a pile of yams, and that made me laugh.

I wiped my mouth on the fancy white napkin and grabbed the pan with what little remained of the sweet potatoes and walked out of the house.

And then I drove away. I assume I’ll get caught sooner rather than later. I know I’ll have to pay for what I did. But it was worth it.

One thing I do not know is this. Do they serve yams in prison on Thanksgiving? I sure hope not.

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