For this week’s installment of Wednesdays for my Wife, she asked me to tell the baked potato story.
NOTE: This is a story about the Holton boys, John, Jim, and Kip. Kip you already know, as well as John. One day maybe Jim will drop by and visit, I don’t know. Anyway, this is a story about us when we were younger, and it involves one of the three of us. So, for purposes of not embarrassing anyone, I’ll just call us A, B, and C. You can’t infer which one of us is which, so I think I can get away with it.
Dad died when I was almost eleven, so we were all in single digits age-wise when this happened.
According to my mother, Dad didn’t especially like eating with my brothers and me. She tried to have us fed and ready for bed before he came home from work, and they’d have dinner together. One day, he managed to get home before Mom had finished preparing dinner for us, so he volunteered to help her with preparations.
“Okay,” Mom said. “You can fix the baked potatoes for the kids.”
“How do I do that?”
“Well, for A, you split the potato lengthwise, push it down, and add butter and salt. For B, you split the potato widthwise, and just add salt. For C, you split the potato lengthwise, then hold the butter on it and go ‘one, two, three’ and take it off…”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” he exclaimed.
I don’t remember how we got our potatoes done that night, but you can bet there wasn’t any complaining. And he never made the mistake of getting home early again.
from The Sound of One Hand Typing