You are annoyed that the potatoes came out too soft.
I want you to know that from here, the potatoes are perfect. Everything is perfect. Your father is telling the story about the ferry again, the one you have heard a hundred times, the one where he gets the year wrong every single time and nobody corrects him. You are half-listening. You are thinking about the dishes.
Please listen to the story.
Look at the table. Really look. The mismatched chairs you dragged in from the bedroom. The gravy boat that is actually just a jug. Your mother has put out the good napkins, the ones she saves, and someone has already used one to wipe up a spill and she has decided not to mind.
Nobody is on their phone. This does not happen often. You do not know yet how rare a full table is. You think there will always be this many of you.
There is a moment coming, right after the plates are cleared, when everyone is too full to move and the room goes quiet and warm and a little golden, and someone laughs at nothing. You will not notice it happen. That is the moment. That is the one I come back to look at.
The potatoes are soft because they were made with hands that loved you and were in a hurry.
Eat slowly. Ask your father which year it actually was. Let him get it wrong. Sit at that table one minute longer than you want to.
I would give a great deal for the soft potatoes.