Damn Yams

Chased out of the kitchen by my wife and daughter-in-law after Thanksgiving dinner, my son and I excused ourselves to the front porch, where we sat taking in the evening chill and sipping our whiskeys.

“That was sure a good dinner,” my son said.

“It was,” I agreed.

“The only thing I didn’t care for was the yams,” he said. “But then I never really like yams anyway.”

“I get you,” I smiled, “They’re not my favorite either.”

“Really?” my son said with some surprise. “I thought you loved them.”

“Nope,” I returned.

“Then why do you fuss over them?” he asked.

“Because your mom took the time to cook them,” I answered. “And cooking Thanksgiving dinner with all the Fixin’s is hard work. It’s the least that I can do.”

“Isn’t that like lying though,” he wondered.

“Maybe, I don’t know,” I said. “But the look of contentment on your mother’s face takes away that thought for me.”

“But…” he began.

I cut him off, saying, “I noticed you ate some too.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I was being polite.”

“And there you go,” I finished.

“Our secret then,” he said as he gently elbowed me.

“You bet,” I said.