My father is sitting at a card table in the back room playing with his stamp collection. He's got a tweezers and a magnifying glass to help him arrange stamps from Serbia and Montenegro and French Indochina. He's in the antiques business, so he's always absorbed in the old and foreign.
Many of my memories of my dad, Sundays, all days, center on family and food. Here's something I wrote about him after he died. Hope it's not too off topic.
They Can’t Take It Away
After my dad died, his afterlife began to resonate in the seminal pleasures that "they can't take away from you," a phrase he used often. I didn't know who "they" were. But I feel confident that he did. And I know the list always included movies and food, two passions we shared.
We savored culinary pleasures high and low, sucking down clams on the half shell accompanied by crinkle-cut fries in a cup at Nathan's. We sat at the Saito counter in the City, witnessing the tempura "master" batter and fry thin slices of sweet potato. And we evaluated ice creams by their butterfat content — the higher the better, he claimed. (We argued that point then, and every time I have ice cream we argue it still, Dad.)
He taught me that food has an afterlife too. Even lousy food is elevated by the memory of what it was in its past. So, the canned chow mein he ordered at a highway diner brought back his first Chinese meal in the Bronx. And those hard December tomatoes he insisted on eating tasted better, because they harkened back to the fat beefsteaks he grew in his garden before the shade encroached.
Mostly we lived meal to meal.
So, when we munched on lox and bagels at my sister’s coffee table after his funeral, my dad was there. He was cooking up my sukiyaki birthday dinner on a hibachi, atop that same table, surrounded by admiring friends. Just as my birthday dinners brought him back to all things Japanese — the enemy he fell in love with in a war long gone —those lox and bagels brought him back to me, and to our Sunday brunches together.
My dad’s pleasure in food remained when all else was gone. The chocolate ice cream I brought him during his last days was wolfed down as if by a small boy. His last words, my sister tells me, were "ice cream."
I’ve missed him for a while. His dark, sharp, often nasty humor was unbeatable. His ability to find the hole in the plot of any mystery movie, but still enjoy a downright awful comedy because he'd "gotten a few good laughs."
And I thank him for those culinary pleasures, his afterlife. That no one can take away.
Love how your father was down for crinkle-cut fries and high end food as well. I've written in the past about things "they can't take away from you." It's a comforting knowing.
I love your questions, and the memories they evoke! My dad is sitting quietly in the afternoon, playing records on his stereo, following along especially with the drums. Not so big on the vocals, he lets his ears zoom in on the parts, the arrangements. Finding something special, he calls us in. "Listen to this!" And we do. Quiet together, listening intently.
I'm very moved by the quiet intimacy of your memory and some of the others below. In my Hospice and nursing home work, people overall did not have warm memories of their fathers. Mothers were revered.
I have this memory of my father lying on the couch TRYING to nap and my 3 sisters and I hovering around him taking turns combing his hair. It seems I noticed a slight smile on his face once in awhile.😌
I have a story in Twilight Time about my father trying to be that kind of Dad. It's called Paleolithic Father's day. Might be archived on the blog, but I'm not sure.
My father is sitting at a card table in the back room playing with his stamp collection. He's got a tweezers and a magnifying glass to help him arrange stamps from Serbia and Montenegro and French Indochina. He's in the antiques business, so he's always absorbed in the old and foreign.
Many of my memories of my dad, Sundays, all days, center on family and food. Here's something I wrote about him after he died. Hope it's not too off topic.
They Can’t Take It Away
After my dad died, his afterlife began to resonate in the seminal pleasures that "they can't take away from you," a phrase he used often. I didn't know who "they" were. But I feel confident that he did. And I know the list always included movies and food, two passions we shared.
We savored culinary pleasures high and low, sucking down clams on the half shell accompanied by crinkle-cut fries in a cup at Nathan's. We sat at the Saito counter in the City, witnessing the tempura "master" batter and fry thin slices of sweet potato. And we evaluated ice creams by their butterfat content — the higher the better, he claimed. (We argued that point then, and every time I have ice cream we argue it still, Dad.)
He taught me that food has an afterlife too. Even lousy food is elevated by the memory of what it was in its past. So, the canned chow mein he ordered at a highway diner brought back his first Chinese meal in the Bronx. And those hard December tomatoes he insisted on eating tasted better, because they harkened back to the fat beefsteaks he grew in his garden before the shade encroached.
Mostly we lived meal to meal.
So, when we munched on lox and bagels at my sister’s coffee table after his funeral, my dad was there. He was cooking up my sukiyaki birthday dinner on a hibachi, atop that same table, surrounded by admiring friends. Just as my birthday dinners brought him back to all things Japanese — the enemy he fell in love with in a war long gone —those lox and bagels brought him back to me, and to our Sunday brunches together.
My dad’s pleasure in food remained when all else was gone. The chocolate ice cream I brought him during his last days was wolfed down as if by a small boy. His last words, my sister tells me, were "ice cream."
I’ve missed him for a while. His dark, sharp, often nasty humor was unbeatable. His ability to find the hole in the plot of any mystery movie, but still enjoy a downright awful comedy because he'd "gotten a few good laughs."
And I thank him for those culinary pleasures, his afterlife. That no one can take away.
Love how your father was down for crinkle-cut fries and high end food as well. I've written in the past about things "they can't take away from you." It's a comforting knowing.
I love your questions, and the memories they evoke! My dad is sitting quietly in the afternoon, playing records on his stereo, following along especially with the drums. Not so big on the vocals, he lets his ears zoom in on the parts, the arrangements. Finding something special, he calls us in. "Listen to this!" And we do. Quiet together, listening intently.
I'm very moved by the quiet intimacy of your memory and some of the others below. In my Hospice and nursing home work, people overall did not have warm memories of their fathers. Mothers were revered.
I have this memory of my father lying on the couch TRYING to nap and my 3 sisters and I hovering around him taking turns combing his hair. It seems I noticed a slight smile on his face once in awhile.😌
This feels familiar. Playing with a helpless parent as if he/she were a pet. Very tender.
Yes, it is a tender, sweet memory. We were so little and like little angels all around his head.🥰
I can really see that!
Barbecuing a steak in the back yard.
I have a story in Twilight Time about my father trying to be that kind of Dad. It's called Paleolithic Father's day. Might be archived on the blog, but I'm not sure.
I have the book. I"ll check.
A classic.