My plate is taken forth to Aunt Nancy and returns with a potato in tow. I thank her for my serving with bated breath and ready my knife for the opening blow. My blade plunges through the rocky surface; I then rip the mass asunder unleashing a torrent of steam from the golden core. The sounds of my family complimenting Uncle Horst for the salmon flutter by as I draw in my personal bar of butter while carefully slicing and massing the potato into small mounds and lumps. The butter is meticulously spread and a rain of salt and pepper disperses itself over the perfectly spread potato. Everything in hand and my meal prepared to my liking, I begin to dig in and let in my family’s conversations.
“What do you think you’re doing?” hisses a garbled Germanic voice. My eyes wander to meet the grizzled face of Uncle Horst. “What are you doing to your potatoes?” grouses Horst with his half tongue as his muscles twist in my direction. “Uh,” Horst smashes his fork to the table and howls “Why did you put butter on your fucking potatoes!” All sound dies and all time with it, Horst is all there is, now standing, panting over me with eyes of steam. There is a heavy calm where all wonder just what sort of gunshot just shattered our American dinner, and long before anyone brought up their guard, the bomb erupts. “I made a special salmon sauce, why did he put butter on his potatoes Nancy?!” “He just likes his potatoes that way Horst!” Aunt Nancy finally spouts as if she were explaining to him how some men are white and some men are black. “He is embarrassing me!” bellows Horst indignantly as his body snaps and rages around the table before freezing on me. I’m lost for words; the screams that rage across the steam filled dinner table while my grandpa and grandaunt look on in horror are almost surreal. I’m the cause of this? “He didn’t know Horst; butter is the way he likes to eat his potatoes, Settle down!” Like any married man should, Horst let that a dose of logic give him pause. He stares at Nancy and breaths in deep, as one final word on the matter he turns to me and spits “spoiled brat!” before returning to his plate.
Everything is drowned out as my eyes flow up to the man and stare a hole through him. My nails dig into my hands and finally now that Horst has gotten his last word, the events that transpired flood into me. A whirl of sadness, fear, and anger flooded my mind. The man is a German marine and this is his house, if I start a fight this man will he go off the rails? Horsts old yet powerful frame was still taunt and pumped. I can’t fight but I can’t break down either! I can’t let this bastard get off after calling me that, after all he has done!
From the torrent of emotion in my mind “I’m sorry that I seem to have offended you Horst, I didn’t intend to insult you. If you want to blame something, blame how I was raised.” Softly but clearly emerged. I looked up to find my eyes locked with Horst’s. He stared before getting up and walking to the back of the house. The potatoes and salmon have now cooled; the food is nice and warm. “You handled him like a champion Wes” remarked Aunt Nancy. “I’m going to go read for a bit” and after I got my leave, I found myself lying on my bed, trying to finish Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.
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