Hello, everybody. It's the holidays, which means that a lot of people are going to be eating mashed potatoes.

They seem to be a staple of holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas. Potatoes show up in some form or another,

and most holidays, lottas, for example, which I love. So given that, I thought it was a good time to revisit a story I've told on occasion,

this time with a twist.

But let's start with the infamous Trump family mashed potato story.

Many years ago, in a faraway place known as Jamaica State's Queens, a young boy of around

six or seven years old named Donald was engaged in his favorite activity, tormenting

his little brother.

In the process of tormenting his little brother, he was driving the rest of his family absolutely up a wall.

His mother, who as it turns out happened to be my grandmother, was frantically trying to get dinner on the table before her husband got home.

In addition to getting it her way, Donald was also making his older sisters and brother

absolutely desperate because in the process of tormenting his little brother, Robert, he was making Robert cry, not

just cry, but scream his head off.

Nothing my grandmother said made a difference.

Nothing his older sisters, Elizabeth and Marianne said made a difference.

Nothing his older brother Freddie made a difference.

Donald would not stop tormenting Robert.

In the midst of all of this, my grandmother is continuing to put the family food on the table.

The green beans, the pork chops.

I don't know exactly what it was.

What I do know she did, was put on the table a very large bowl of mashed potatoes.

How do I know it was a very large bowl of mashed potatoes?

...