I spent my first Thanksgiving with my husband in his Irish-Italian neighborhood in New York City. As a newcomer, I was placed in charge of boiling 15 pounds of potatoes. When they were ready, I picked up the pan and surveyed the crowded kitchen for a sink in which to drain them. My husband’s elderly uncle Bob guided me to a small half-bathroom and grabbed the steaming pot. He started to drain the potatoes into the toilet, but he lost his grip on the lid and all the potatoes tumbled in! I screamed, “Oh no!” but Uncle Bob began fishing the potatoes out of the toilet. “No one will ever know,” he whispered. “Now just go out there and mash them.”

Sometime later, during the meal, my husband’s Aunt Tot leaned over and whispered, “Your potatoes are delicious. I think you are going to fit into this family quite nicely.”

— Robin McCutchan in Oxford, Ohio