Father’s Day

I’m a bit out of sorts today. It’s my first Father’s Day without my father. For the first time in many years I haven’t made paella, cooked a lobster, or made a clam boil for my dad. Those were some of his favorites, and for the last few years of his life I tried to make his favorites whenever the opportunity arose. He’d lost his appetite, and nothing really appealed to him, so if there was anything that sounded good to him I made it. I remember one summer day I’d taken him to a doctor’s appointment and when I returned him home my cousin had just dropped off an assortment of summer squashes. My aunt, who he lived with, would have probably just boiled them up, but I looked at him and said, “Want some fried zucchini?” His eyes lit up. So I made him up an impromptu late afternoon snack of zucchini dipped in egg and Bisquick and fried in vegetable oil, topped with a little salt and pepper. It was the way he made them at Mashpee, on camping trips, or in his home kitchen when he still grew a garden and cooked.

Many of my best memories of my dad were around food. He wasn’t the primary cook in the house, my mom was a great cook, but there were things that were his domain, like the grill, the clam boil kettle, and frying fish in a cast iron pan over a Coleman stove. And eating out. He used to say he wished he had a nickel for every cocktail shrimp I ever consumed as a child; he was sorry he’d ever let me taste one. That was in the days of old steakhouses like Valle’s, The Coachman, Thad’s, Monsours, and Tavano’s. Well, Tavano’s was Italian as well but they made a mean steak. Our typical meal was shrimp cocktail, tossed salad with Thousand Island dressing, and a sirloin with a baked potato. And maybe a crème de menthe parfait for me, coffee jello (it’s actually awesome) for my mom, and grapenut custard for him.

As my folks grew older and I began taking over holiday meals my focus was always on what they’d like. Certain things had to stay because my mother would say it just wasn’t Thanksgiving without boiled onions or sweet potatoes. Really? We no longer have those items at the table; they’ve evolved into pearl onions with horseradish cream sauce or blue cheese and bacon, and the sweet potatoes disappeared and were so not missed when Andrea started bringing butternut squash lasagna. I always made a ham as well as a turkey; even though my dad ate turkey he really loved ham, and a ham bone meant a soup I could make for him the next day. And he loved soup as much as he loved ham. Both together? Nirvana.

Now I find myself going right to that place and there’s a catch in my throat when I realize I won’t be making something especially for him for Father’s Day or for any Sunday, holiday, or special occasion. That I won’t be ordering lobster and chowder for him from Legal Seafood on his birthday, or bringing him a coconut custard pie just because. But I can remember all those times I did and be happy that I made him happy. Food is love, any questions about why I overeat?

Practically, I can look at this as one of many opportunities to not have an excuse to overeat. Or when my mother and sister were alive, overdrink. But I’d love to have him back to revisit some of those days that were good, when he wasn’t hurting and was full of life and still had his appetite. I’d happily gain the eleven pounds back for that. Or to hear him say, “Hiya, baby!” always so happy to see me.
His picture, big and bold with his jaunty cap, wearing his lobster bib and holding his lobster, is on our dining room wall, with his flag box and a letter from President Obama thanking me for his service to our country. I wished my dad happy Father’s Day today and thanked him for his service to our family. And especially for giving me the gift of always telling me he was so proud of his “baby”.

Happy Father’s Day to all you Dads. Kiss your wives; you couldn’t have done it without them.