Kid’s Dice and Mashed Potatoes

I was under four feet tall, flat-chested, and loved mashed potatoes. My love for spuds came from some sage advice from a very special lady in my life. She had the biggest, whitest, largest cup-sized brassiere that I had ever seen. After that weekly spin through the wash, that white elastic slingshot covered the entire dryer top. My Grandma had big boobs and she was my coach.

Each Saturday night, our family would make our way to the small Café in Hamilton, Montana. The formica on the tabletop looked as if a hand sander had been used on all the edges. Years of floating grease particles filled the little grooves in the wood-grain paneling on the walls. Frank was the cartoon character-like figure who always emerged from behind the counter to take our orders. He was also the one who brought the dice.

My father’s hands cupped the two dice. I had everything that I could—crossed. I held my breath. His hands rubbed back and forth tumbling the white-spotted squares inside. And then he let them fly across the surface. Time stood still. Click. Clack. Click. The dice landed on the table. The answer was clear. If the dice popped up a pair, I cheered as I got my double order of mashed potatoes. No pair—then I slowly slid down into the booth with my chin on the table. One order of potatoes and one slide of vegetables would soon arrive.

Looking back, my Dad was a genius. He didn’t have to play the role of the evil decision-maker. Instead, he put that pressure on the dice. I couldn’t argue with the outcome. We never got to re-roll, as Frank quickly swept up the dice until the next time.

Years went by and my luck was good. Mounds of mashed potatoes made their way to my plate. Grandma said mashed potatoes would grow boobs—she forgot to mention that your butt will grow too. Thanks, Grandma.