As a young boy, I remember being privileged and excited that I could help my Mom with dinner. She was always so appreciative and loving when she squeezed you tight and gave you kisses all over your face.

Just after Mom was done boiling and straining the potatoes, “watch out – they’re hot,” she would caution anyone within ear shot. She would dump the chopped up potatoes back into their original metal pot that had blue paint chips peeling off the sides. I remember the steam rolling off the potatoes, as if they were awaiting my Mom’s guided instructions with anticipation. She would let me pour the Stewart’s two percent milk; the plastic gallon jug would have an uneven balance as the milk splashed and sloshed all over the taters. Apparently, it was a little too much milk as my mother replied with a “whoops!”

The next step was to sprinkle some Morton salt around the perimeter of the pot. It wasn’t your typical glass salt shaker off the table. Straight from the grocery store, the cardboard tube with the price sticker on it, showed a small child in a raincoat. The salt flowed from the metal spout at the top like a tremendous downpour all around the edge of the pot; my Mom’s hands guided me so that I wouldn’t pour too much.

Afterwards, came the butter. A stick or two of Land o Lakes butter had been sitting idly by in order to reach a nice room temperature melt. The wax paper was peeled away from the edges of the melting sticks and they would go PLOP into the land of chunked potatoes. The melting butter stuck to the warm potatoes and the hue of everything would change from a white winter wonderland to something of a yellow splatter effect.

“Now for the best part,” my Mom handed me a device that could possibly have doubled as a torture device in medieval times. It had a long handle and a flattened metal plate with holes that I thought must be used to press on skin to create a brand as they did to cattle. Mom handed me the device and I moved closer to the edge of the round table and stared down at the blue speckled pot and all of its glorious contents.

I grasped the handle with both hands and jabbed the masher down as hard as I could, imagining the pile of ingredients to be an alien creature that needed to be put out of its misery by my hands. The milky, buttery edges of the chopped up potatoes spluttered up and on my face and against the sides of the pot as though a bomb had exploded. “Careful now,” Mom said with a caring voice as she turned her head back and forth between my progress and her contents on the stove – typically fried chicken tenders that had grease popping from underneath their breaded surfaces onto the neighboring cabinets, ingredient containers and variety of cookbooks along the counter.

I gave it another go, this time changing the angle and force of my entry into the blue drum. “SMOOSH – SQUISH – BANG,” were the repeated noises echoing in the drum. The smasher pressed down, potato pieces rose up from the holes like short spaghetti snakes coming out of a Play-Doh Fun Maker. The masher reached the bottom of the pot, and I lifted it up with a suction noise, like when Dad had to unclog the toilet. The process was repeated again and again until the potatoes formed a smooth consistency throughout the pot, and a rich smell of buttery, creamy goodness ensnared my nostrils.

My Mom came up to me, flicked the potato chunks off my face and forearms. She pulled me in tight and gave me kisses as she had earlier. “My little helper,” she said, as with excitement she planted the wax of her pink lipstick all over my face. “Thank you for doing such a great job on mashing those potatoes!”

A feeling of encompassing warmth, pride and joy spread over me as Mom blessed me with kisses all over my face. This was such a small moment in my life, but this small, heartfelt touching moment meant a lifetime of love to me from my Mother.