He mumbled to himself as he opened our dilapidated fridge, something about helping. I burned a finger putting the potatoes back in the pan on the stove. I located the hand masher to defend my dish, just in case. As I moved to get the milk, Dad had the plastic jug in hand and hustled my way. Before I could even form words, Dad had pushed me aside. I pressed out my hand like a crossing guard. The milk glugged into the pot until the full gallon was almost gone. “No!” That one word discharged in a distorted, slow-motion, lip-contorted movement, and it was as shrill as a whistle. “What have you done?” I howled. “Mom said not more than a ¼ cup of milk at a time.” I should have been proud of myself for remembering the correct fractions, but I was too distracted by the terrible mistake of letting Dad take charge. The pan flowed with way more than required. The incident of the salt brownies of three years earlier reared its ghostly head. Dad glared at me for my sass; I glared at the drowned chunks of potato. “Well, if you don’t want to do it,” Dad snarled, “why didn’t you just say so?” He yanked the masher from my drooping hand. He pressed it into the milk mush, suddenly realizing the potatoes were outflanked. Strike three! It was an ambush; I never saw it coming. I knew right then why Mom had said to not let Dad in the kitchen. He ruined my side dish and wasted what must have been at least a dozen potatoes, a gallon of milk, and over half an hour of my time. I started to cry. In one of his more genial moments, Dad said, “Don’t worry. I can fix this.” His engineering mind took over. He poured what little was left of the milk into the pot. “Hand me the cayenne pepper. We’re making potato soup!” Susan and I exchanged frightened looks. Defeated, I tripped over to the spice rack as she forked the completed roast onto a platter. I couldn’t watch after I handed that hot spice over to Dad. Resigned to my P.O.W. status, I set out the silverware and dishes for each of the thirteen chairs around the wooden table. Never before that day had I tasted warm cayenne milk soup. I glared across the table at Dad, who sipped his vile concoction and patted his liver. Everyone else glared at me. 29 PLAINS paradox