Christmas with the ex-in-laws. Sounds like the title of a bad holiday movie, doesn’t it? Unfortunately, this wasn’t fiction, it was my reality, one particularly memorable holiday season. I’d love to say it was all warm and fuzzy, filled with the spirit of giving and good cheer, but let’s be real: there were tears, door slams, a full-scale argument, and yes—mashed potatoes were literally spit out in anger.
Ah, Christmas—the season of joy, togetherness, and, if you’re lucky, just a sprinkle of family drama to keep things interesting. This particular holiday gathering at my ex-in-laws’ house did not disappoint. In fact, it might go down in history as the most festive display of dysfunction I’ve ever witnessed.
Now, I knew going in that spending Christmas with my ex’s family was a gamble. But for the sake of my kids, I put on my best everything is fine face and walked through that door like I was stepping into a Hallmark movie. Spoiler alert: I was not.
It all started like any other holiday dinner. My kids and I arrived, exchanged polite greetings, and settled in for what I hoped would be a relatively drama-free meal. (Spoiler alert: It was not.) Everything seemed fine at first—plates were filled, small talk was made, and I even dared to think, Hey, maybe this won’t be a disaster after all.
Dinner started off pleasantly enough. The kids were happy, plates were full, and for a brief, shining moment, it seemed like we might have a normal, drama-free holiday.
—But before I knew it, voices were raised, accusations were flying, and somewhere in the background, Christmas music played on like it had given up trying to set the mood.
Then the seating arrangements threw a wrench into the holiday spirit. My former brother-in-law’s girlfriend was not pleased with her assigned seat at the kitchen table, where she was stuck with her teenage kids instead of being at the esteemed banquet table in the living room. I mean, how dare she be separated from the VIP section? She wasn’t quiet about her disappointment either, making sure everyone knew just how unfair and unacceptable this was.
And as if that wasn’t enough to keep things interesting, the conversation at the main table took a turn into heated-argument territory. I’m still not entirely sure how it started—maybe someone looked at someone else the wrong way. Maybe it was the Great Cranberry Sauce Debate. Who knows what sparked it?
Whatever it was, my former brother-in-law got so worked up that he actually spit out his mashed potatoes mid-rant. Right there at the dinner table. A full-on, dramatic food explosion. I wish I were making this up.
And then came the waterworks. Someone stormed away from the table, another person followed, and within minutes, doors were slamming like we were in a soap opera season finale. More tears flowed, voices rose, and somewhere in the background, Christmas music played on, blissfully unaware of the domestic battlefield still unfolding.
Meanwhile, my kids and I? We just kept eating, calmly working through our holiday feast while the chaos swirled around us. Because really, what else were we supposed to do? This wasn’t our first rodeo—we’d been through enough family gatherings to know that the best strategy was to stay out of it and enjoy the meal while we could. We had our mashed potatoes to finish.
But when it came time for dessert, I decided we’d had enough. The tension was thick enough to cut with a butter knife, but I chose to take the high road—and by that, I mean I took dessert to go. Nothing, and I mean nothing, was going to ruin my holiday pie.
I packed up our slices of pie, gave a cheerful (and slightly sarcastic) Merry Christmas! to the remaining survivors, and made our exit. Because if there’s one thing, I’ve learned from Christmases past, it’s that sometimes, the best way to keep the holiday spirit alive is to take your dessert to go.
So, we grabbed our treats, re-wished everyone a Merry Christmas (because why not add a little more sarcasm?), and made a swift but dignified exit.
Moral of the story? Family holiday drama is as predictable as ugly Christmas sweaters, but at least you can always leave with a slice of pie and a good story to tell.
And that, my friends, is how the legend of the Great Mashed Potato Meltdown was born.
