DON’T LET YOUR FATHER IN THE KITCHEN the main course of rump roast to go with my mashed potatoes. The steam in the kitchen weighed heavy on me. I leaned away from the stove toward the counter where Susan stood closer to the spice rack. I shared our mission with her. Just as I completed my sentence, her eyes widened. Dad landed in the kitchen, now changed out of his work clothes into jeans and a flannel. “Looks like your mother’s down for the count. Doesn’t have a good liver like me.” He patted his prominent belly. “So, what can I do to get dinner ready?” Strike one. The potatoes had just started a slow boil, so I turned my attention toward them in an attempt to outmaneuver the enemy. I had to guard my station. Susan didn’t move a muscle to do anything with the roast as it browned on the electric skillet. It would appear her tactic was much more strategic because mine only brought the enemy closer. “Oh, mashed potatoes,” Dad said. “I can help there.” Strike two. My heart thumped so loud it pulsed in my ears. I didn’t feel comfortable leaving my potato boiling post long enough to ask Mom the next step. I’d have to wing it and pray that I wouldn’t abuse the cups-versus-teaspoon rule again. Fractions were still confusing. As I fretted over math, Dad encroached. Susan came to my rescue, suavely saying that we had everything under control; we had promised Mom to take care of dinner. Phew, that bought us a few minutes because, fortunately, Dad left to check on the other starving children in the household, the ones that weren’t down with the stomach bug, that is. Counterstrike: the enemy retreated. I zipped in to see Mom about the next steps. As I rounded the baby brig, Mom startled awake. Her wig was off, and her natural hair that possessed two beautiful wings of silver, one on each side of her head, was ruffled. Given the ragged state of Mom in her homemade pajamas long before bedtime, I attempted to remember as much as I could so I wouldn’t have to return and bother her. Among other details, Mom finished with, “Once cooked, mash potatoes with butter, salt, and a ¼ cup of milk at a time.” My head swarmed with the mention of a ¼ cup and salt so close together. But I braced myself. I could do this. I rushed back. Susan was way ahead of me, which made me fumble with the mashed potato-making utensils. Dad advanced into the boxy kitchen, passing the red tea cart loaded down with paper grocery bags, just as I poured the steaming potatoes into a strainer in the sink. PLAINS 28 paradox