Every Thanksgiving, people rave about my mashed potatoes and “could you please make them again this year?”.

Well, I know my mashed potatoes are not THAT good.
It’s like there is a thing that mothers and wifes do so “the dad” can feel like
an important part of the dinner preparations.
The dad has a “special dish” that they are known for and all the ladies
support his fragile male ego my asking for the special preparation.
It could be BBQ’ing. It could be pecan pie. It could be mashed potatoes.
Should I be taken in my this ruse?

I’ve come to feel that it’s like believing in Santa Claus:
in your logical brain you know the truth, but
believing makes the world a better place.
So, I accept the accolades and mash the potatoes.
And my ego is better for it.