My father passes a dish to his left and my brother grabs on. After he helps himself he passes it to my younger brother, then on to my mom, my sister and finally to me. The next dish receives the same method of distribution, until everyone has helped him or herself. Now you may wonder at this particular dinning operational procedure like I did (always being the last), but trust me, it does no good to ask.
There always seemed to be plenty in the dishes that cradled broccoli and beans but precious little of the foods I loved. When potatoes arrived to their final destination, I had to scrape around the sides to get a thumb-full and they were so cold that the pat of butter remained stubbornly solid on top
But, on my birthday, legalism gave way to grace and the wheel of the food chain miraculously spun in reverse and I got to go first (after dad of course). And, because we were allowed to choose the menu on this most wonderful of days, mashed potatoes topped the list.
I piled them up. They were piping hot and I lavished butter in the indentation forged on the mountain-top by my spoon. They were fantastic. And I got my fill. I was wonderfully satisfied. In fact, my cup runneth over.
And some days are like that too!