“Smashed” Potatoes
By Dr. Phillip E. Shirley
My sister’s husband was accepted as a new pastoral in Kansas City, Missouri, and my uncle “Wink,” as we called him, and I had agreed to drive a huge, 1948 Ford moving truck from Dallas, Texas, to KC and back.
Barely out of high school, I felt grown up riding with my uncle whom I admired and loved. We successfully unloaded the truck at my sis’s new home in KC and were on our way home in record time. It was Sunday, and we hadn’t time to bathe, shave, or indulge in any of the civilized amenities of the normal male. Our clothes had stains from dried sweat, our beards were long and I’m sure we smelled and looked the part of vagabonds.
By the time we reached a little town called Hope, Arkansas, close to the Texas border, we were hungry and espied a nice-looking restaurant. We went in and discovered it was buffet styled and my uncle started heaping the delicious smelling food on his plate. I noticed that he favored the mashed potatoes which began to look like a small mountain rather than a serving.
We reached the cashier about the same time we realized that beautifully dressed people were filling the restaurant. We suddenly realized that we had stopped at the town’s favorite place to eat, it was noon on Sunday and our fellow partakers were just coming from churches in the area. To put it mildly, we felt like fish out of water.
After we paid the cashier, we were anxious to find an inconspicuous table and keep a low profile in the meantime. We made a quick turn to an out-of-the-way table. As he dug into his food, a frown appeared my Uncle’s face. In an exasperated tone, he said, “You know, I could have sworn I got some mashed potatoes!” he strongly protested. To which I replied, “Wink, you did and the whole soft mountain slid gracefully off your plate as you executed your rapid, 90 degree turn to the table. I think it would be safe to say the mashed potatoes are smashed potatoes as the waitresses are slipping and sliding through your choice entre.” Wink and I inhaled the remains of our food and made a hasty retreat from a little town called, Hope, Arkansas.