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There's trouble tonight in the Coughlin family.

I got home from a nice dinner party at my friend Kathryn's house to find a message on the answering machine from my brother Dennis.

"Amy. I'm at Mom's. Call me when you get home. I have something important to tell you."

His voice kind of cracked on that last line, and he sounded a little bit triumphant, so I immediately knew that my mom had made him a good dinner.

I would never have guessed what it was, though. I had no idea she'd betray me this way.

Ever since there has been snow on the ground, I've been asking her to make barbequed ribs for me. I've been obsessed with the idea of them, and each time she offers to have us over for dinner, I make a polite suggestion.

"Amy, do you and Andy want to come over for a turkey dinner on Sunday?"

"Will there be barbequed ribs? I'd like some."

"Amy, everyone is coming over on Saturday to help us clean out our utility room so our dryer can be replaced and also we have to pack our boxes for our winter in Florida. Can you and Andy help?"

"Sure. Will there be barbequed ribs?"

Pretty soon she caught on to my suggestions and began to make excuses.

"No, I can't make them, they're not on sale anywhere."

"They're too expensive."

"I don't know where to get the good ones since that butcher went out of business."

"There are some in the freezer, but they'd take too long to thaw."

So I called Dennis back at my mom's house at about 9:30 PM. My mom answered the phone, heard it was me, and suddenly there was a lot of commotion in the background.

"You tell her!"

"No, you tell her!"

Giggling. Tussling. Dennis came on the line.

I expected a report of chicken and dumplings (his favorite) or perhaps meatballs and gravy or some other Coughlin Family Standard. I waited.

"Guess what we had for dinner?" Dennis asked, always unable to be sneaky.

"What?" I responded, prepared to be slightly annoyed at having been left out of one of my mom's meals.

"Barbequed ribs..."

"SHUT UP."

"...and..."

"NO. DENNIS. SHUT UP."

"...potato pancakes!" There was a gleeful pause.

I couldn't even speak. It was like he had driven a knife through my heart.

I'm not even sure how to go about describing the importance of potato pancakes to my family. Let's just say they are a big freeking deal. My mom shreds the potatoes up by hand with one of those silver machine things with a crank. Then she fashions them into pancakes and fries them up. Then she keeps them warm in the oven until she's ready to serve them all.

If there is more than one Coughlin sibling at the dinner table, there is a tally taken of the number of potato pancakes available for the meal. Subtract three for my mom, two for my dad, then divide the rest up among yourself.

Watch carefully to be sure no one sneaks any extras. For example, tonight there was a report that Dennis had taken one extra pancake and hidden it under the stack of ribs on his plate, trying to cut it up and blend it in with the rest of his pile before anyone could count the number of pancakes he possessed.

And while you eat your potato pancakes (with butter or with butter and sour cream), and while you keep an eye on your sibling's plate, you think of who you can call to announce that you're eating potato pancakes. Who will be home to receive the news? Who will be the most upset? Start with him or her first.

And tonight it was me.

"LET ME TALK TO MOM." I said loudly.

"No, I'm not done telling you what else we had..."

"DENNIS. HAND THE PHONE TO MOM."

"Hello?" my mom said innocently.

"Mom! How could you? God!!"

"Well, I just made them and..."

"Mom, how long have I been asking you to make me barbequed ribs? HOW LONG?"

"Oh, I didn't know..."

"SINCE THERE WAS SNOW ON THE GROUND, MOM. I have been BEGGING for them. And you make them for that gloating idiot! And not me!"

"Well, I knew one of you wanted them..."

"Yeah? Well, write it down this time! IT WAS ME. I WANT THEM. And with potato pancakes! You have one week!"

"Well, there are some left in the kitchen, I'll wrap them up and Dennis can bring them over to you right now..."

"MOM! I don't want any USED RIBS! I want them FRESH!"

At this point she was laughing so hard at me and my outrage that she handed the phone off to Dennis again.

"Amy, I am so full..."

"SHUT UP."

"Oh, and I called Kevin...boy, he was really pissed! He hung up on me! And then I made the mistake of calling Julie, and she came over and demanded to be included in the meal. Luckily, mom made enough, but we only got 5 potato pancakes each..."

Silence from my end.

Then muffled talking from his.

"I just told her that Julie was here. Yeah, I think she's pissed."

"Ask mom how many trips to the emergency room I've made with her."

"No."

"Ask her!"

He did.

"Ask mom who showered her after her hip replacement surgery."

"No."

"ASK HER!"

My mom came back on.

"I can't make them for you tomorrow, but maybe on Friday..." She sounded anxious.

"Oh mom," I said. "I'm just kidding. I can wait even two weeks if I need to." I was feeling generous.

"So when are you and dad getting your hot water tank replaced?" I asked, a few minutes later, after the commotion of Dinner Talk had died down. "When will you need to come over and use our shower?"

"Well, on Monday, but I don't think I want to use your shower," she said.

"Why?" I asked indignantly. "My shower is clean!"

"No, not that..." she said. "It's just that...well, the state you were in earlier...I'm not sure what you'd do to me once I was in there."