Potatoes Au Gratitude by Kristy Holditch

Lumps. Always lumps. When will my wife finally learn how to make proper mashed potatoes? The butter, loads of it, roasted garlic, minced onion, and the top-secret ingredient of cottage cheese––just how mom used to make them. That freshly shredded parmesan crust turned golden brown in the oven. That’s what all my Thanksgiving dreams have ever been made of. Not this lumpy nightmare, the stench of burnt currently billowing from the kitchen. 

I’ve offered to help, plenty. But after the seventeenth time, I’ve finally admitted defeat. Perhaps that’s the reason I feel this particular brand of holiday spirit today. That and the fact that it’s the first Thanksgiving without mom. 

A series of booms and crashes now sounds from the kitchen. 

“Honey?” I hear, resignation dripping from her tone, though I’ve already made it to the threshold. The checkered tiles are now littered with a thin layer of flour, and an unfinished turkey is buried beneath shards of glass from one of the cake pans we got as a wedding present three years ago. Something rather unsightly bubbles like lava on the stovetop. The scene looks like a cross between a first snow and a botched poultry shop robbery. Patches of flour strike across my wife’s face like war paint. 

“Can you help?” she asks, though we both know she hates asking for help. 

I lick two fingers, dab them in the rogue flour on her apron, and create two strikes of war paint beneath my own eyes. 

“Want me to order a pizza?” 

She’s not amused. So I grab a broom and dustpan from the closet and begin my janitorial duties, sweeping flour into small landmines, and dumping the shards of glass into the trash. While I do, I catch her wiping her eyes. I rise to my feet, forgetting all my bitterness from before. I place my hand on the small of her back. She looks like a young girl every time she cries. I just want to hold her, tuck her hair behind her ear, and tell her, life is shit sometimes. But she shakes me off and gathers herself before I get the chance. 

“Butter. We need butter. Oh, and cottage cheese. Can you run to the store?” 

“You forgot… butter?” I ask before I can stop myself. She stares at me with a kind of blankness, and I know I’ve said the wrong thing. “Got it,” I say and grab my keys. “Anything else?” 

She shakes her head, and I leave without another word.  

As my footsteps retreat over the gravel driveway, I wonder what they sound like to her—what any of this sounds like anymore. We always thought this driveway would be full of life by now: the scuffling of tiny shoes, the squeak of bike tires, a swing set with monkey bars off in the corner. Instead, it’s been two years of doctor’s appointments and forced optimism, broken up by nothing but bad news and empty nursery plans. The miscarriages became something we almost expected—each one stealing more hope than the last. Now all I hear is the heavy stillness that’s settled between us, the space where laughter should’ve been. 

I’m so distracted by the what-could-have-beens that I don’t notice the neighborhood cat curled up by my front tire. My next step lands right on her tail, sending us both into a panic as I stumble, clipping a stick and turning my ankle before hitting the ground.

Perfect. 

I roll to my back and take off my shoe. My ankle throbs, and the hand I failed to catch myself with is spotted in blood. I’m out of view from the kitchen window so I lay my head back on the stones, squeeze my eyes shut, and refuse to move. Then I hear it.

“Uh, Jack?” It’s my neighbor Bill. “Everything alright?” 

I should spring to my feet and get in my car like nothing has happened, but instead, I lay there and shoot him and his family of four a thumbs up. I say, “Happy Thanksgiving.” 

They’ve just come from the Turkey Trot in town, and I hate them for it. 

When they’ve made it around the corner, I stand up, get in my car and go. I pass right by the grocery store and park in the near-empty lot of Stella’s Bar and Grill, the only bar open for twenty square miles, and I can see why. It reeks of cigarettes, and the carpet that’s trying so hard to be green looks more like tar in this light. A pair of teenagers shoots pool by the window, sipping on sodas, and, who I can only imagine to be, two regulars are parked at the bookends of the bar. It’s then that I decide to commit to the fact that one of my shoes is still in the driveway back home. Barefoot and limping, I make my way over to the bar and plop right between them. 

“Whiskey.” 

“Jack?” the bartener with a messy bun asks over thick, red-rimmed glasses. 

“Do I… know you?” 

“Jack Daniels?” She rolls her eyes. She’s not here to make friends and looking around, I can see why. 

“Oh, yes please.” 

It drops in front of me with a thud, and then she disappears into the kitchen. 

I begin sipping. The burn isn’t what I remember, but it’s what I need. There’s chuckling next to me then. 

“Jack Daniels,” The man repeats, laughing some more. He sips from a metal cup, his own, and I can’t tell what he’s drinking. But his slow words and hunched posture tell me enough. 

I try to avoid eye contact, but he presses forward. 

“So, Jack Daniels, what’s a guy like you doing in here on a day like this? Isn’t it Christmas or some shit?” 

“Thanksgiving,” I say. And then I realize I’ve said too much. He’s hooked me. 

“Potato, potäto.” 

I think of my wife at home, her lumpy potatoes missing their most important ingredients, now thanks to me. I turn my sips into gulps until I’ve drained my cup, then prepare to leave.  

“Aren’t you wondering what I’m doing in here?” 

“Not really.” 

“This is where I live,” he says. 

The impatient woman emerges from the kitchen. 

“Isn’t that right, Stella?” The man isn’t exactly slurring, but he could be on his way to it in an hour or so. “Isn’t this my place of residence?” The word residence comes out a bit messy. 

“Keep dreaming, sweetheart. And don’t you dare walk out on your bill.” She looks at me and nods. “Another?” 

I shrug. 

“I’ll join him,” says the man as he slides over one stool, still leaving a chair between us. “What are we drinking to?” 

“I’m not sure,” I say. 

“Good point,” he says, lifting his cup. “What are we not drinking to, is more like it.” He slams it back as if it’s water, then yells in Stella’s direction for another round. 

I tip back my own and nearly gag, my first shot since I can remember. 

It’s then that I notice the gold wedding ring on the man’s hand. Before I can look away, he catches me. 

“Thinking about your family, Jack Daniels?” he asks. 

“I… don’t really have a family.” 

“You have a wife, don’t ya?” He gestures to my own wedding ring. “That’s family, kid. What’s she doing right now anyway?” 

I feign a smile in Stella’s direction as she takes our glasses and studies me.

“Waiting for me to get home with butter and cottage cheese. It’s our first Thanksgiving just the two of us, and, I don’t know, something feels off. Everything’s lumpy and burnt and––”

 “You men just give up so easily, don’t you?” Stella breaks in. Though it’s posed as a question, it feels more like a statement. 

“It’s not that simple.”

“It’s always that simple, sweetheart,” she says, then she’s back in the kitchen before I can blink twice.  

I think of my wife. Our first night in our home is still one of my favorite memories. No furniture, no power, not even a plan. Just a sea of blankets, sleeping bags, and candles huddled around a pepperoni pizza. I wish it were still that simple now. Then I think, maybe it can be. Or, maybe it’s just the whiskey talking. 

“Hey, Jack Daniels, take it from me and my laundry list of mistakes, okay? Tell me, can you imagine life without her?” 

 “No.”

“Then go fix it.”

 The kitchen door swings open, and Stella emerges with a pepperoni pizza. She places it in front of the gentleman down the bar. 

“Hey, uh, can I get one of those to-go?” I ask. “Actually, make it two.” 

“That’s some good advice,” I say, turning to the man next to me. “By the way, I never did catch your name.” 

He smiles through crooked teeth. “It’s Daniel,” he says, then announces he’s going to go relieve himself.

When the pizzas are ready, I leave one of the boxes in front of my new friend’s empty chair and hand enough money to the bartender to hopefully cover his unpaid tab. “Merry Christmas, Daniel.” 

I make it back home and slip through the front door. Somehow from the kitchen my wife smells the pizza and comes out to find me moving the couch. 

When she steps into the family room, I’ve rearranged the furniture to accommodate a sea of blankets, sleeping bags, and candles. A pepperoni pizza and her favorite bottle of wine sit at the center with two glasses. 

I look up to see her eyes scanning the setup, but she doesn’t smile. Instead, she crosses her arms, her face caught somewhere in the mix of exhaustion and suspicion.

“When I asked you to set the table, this wasn’t quite what I had in mind.” 

I feel the weight of the day’s silence hanging in the space between us. “A little distraction,” I say, trying to keep it light. “I thought maybe we could… start over?”

She doesn’t respond immediately, just walks past me to the couch, her movements slow. I disappear into the kitchen and return with the only survivor of the day’s cooking disasters––a bowl of lumpy potatoes––and two spoons. I set it down next to the pizza, and there’s a long, quiet moment where I wonder if I’ve taken things too far. Her hands are resting on the edge of the couch like she’s unsure what to do with my peace offering. I sit down next to her, handing her one of the glasses of wine, which she takes only to set back down again, her fingers lingering around the stem.

“Hey,” I say softly, nudging her knee with mine. “This doesn’t have to be perfect. We’re allowed to mess it up, right?”

She glances at me, something in her eyes—something between sorrow and hope. She pulls a pregnancy test from her pocket and tosses it on my lap, its faint plus sign staring back at me, like all the other ones before.

I’m not sure if she’s waiting for me to say something or if she’s holding her breath. The room feels smaller. Finally, a small, shaky laugh escapes her lips, like she can’t quite believe it.

 “How–how do you feel?” I manage to say. 

She shrugs, then says, “Honestly? Different. Good, different. Like this––” She pauses, bringing her palm to her stomach. “Like this time could be different.” 

I give her this, this possibility, even as I want to say maybe not. There’s no reason to believe it might be any different. All we can do is wait.

“I hear mashed potatoes go great with pizza.” 

She almost laughs at my almost joke. There’s no certainty in either of us, but when she lays her head on me, her breath warm against my neck, I know something has changed.

When the greasy pizza box is filled with nothing but half-eaten crusts, and the bowl of lumpy mashed potatoes remains untouched, she curls up into me and falls asleep. I ease a pillow under her head, then quietly gather the wine glasses, the box, the bowl. I dump the mashed potatoes into the trash and take the bag out, so she won’t have to see them in the morning.

Outside, the night smells like rain. I stand there a while, taking in the quiet, letting my mind wander to what life might look like a year from now—tiny fingers dipped in mashed potatoes, its lumps, the laughter. 

For now, the hope.

Kristy Holditch lives in Grayton Beach, Florida, with her husband and two children. Her writing has been featured in the Huffington Post, Beach Happy Magazine, and Emerald Coast Magazine, among others. She is at work on her debut novel, Just Passing Through, and is the co-founder of Emerald Coast Storytellers, a community dedicated to amplifying voices through writing and live storytelling events.

27 November 2025