Father’s Day is June 20th.
So I asked my Twitter followers if they remember their dad doing any cooking.
As most men responded, I think there must be a special bond between dads and sons when it comes to cooking. Responses ranged from pancakes to barbeques. One man talked about his dad making pancakes and in later times toast and marmalade. One son said he remembered his dad making a seven-course meal with Cornish game hens as the main entrée. That was really over the top! Yet, another friend told me he remembers that due to financial constraints, cooking mainly consisted of him and his dad heating cans of Ravioli.
On camping trips in New Brunswick, Canada, my mom’s dad would catch lobster. The whole family would clam dig. He would dig a big fire pit and, using seaweed, steam the clams and lobster. Cooking at home was mostly left to her and her mom.
My husband remembers his dad frying fish, toasting white bread on sticks, and roasting marshmallows over the campfire.
My dad loved food!
However, cooking was not one of his better skills.
A morning I remember like it was yesterday was when dad got me ready for kindergarten. He was determined to make breakfast precisely as mom would. That was the morning I realized that I had a preference in how I like my eggs.
Mom made my hard-boiled eggs. She took the egg out of the shell and chopped it into fine pieces, then seasoned it with salt and pepper and a pat of butter. Oh, how I loved it that way!
Dad proudly placed his version before me. It was not just soft; it was runny. I tried valiantly to eat that egg. Despite his best efforts, he hadn’t made an egg as good as mom. In full disclosure, I had told dad I didn’t care how he cooked my egg. In my defense, I hadn’t realized there were different ways. I remember him being sadly apologetic.
Today, I wish I could tell dad that I appreciated that he tried and that is all that mattered.
I inherited the gene that makes failed eggs. Don’t ask me to cook eggs. Ever. Unless you like hard-boiled eggs. You really can’t screw those up.
Another time, dad decided to make dinner. How hard is it to cook and scramble hamburger? Apparently, as hard as it is for me to make eggs!
First of all, he put in onions. As a kid, I hated raw or cooked onions in anything.
Secondly, he added both tobasco and Worcestershire sauce. Dad loved spicy foods! The spicier, the better! This particular night we learned even dad had spicy food limitations. Wow! None of us could eat! We kids had permission to throw our servings away, but dad ate every bite of his. It wasn’t a badge of honor. It was more like he was taking responsibility. I don’t recall him ever making dinner again.
I didn’t have many Father’s Days to celebrate with my dad, but of the ones I remember, I will hold them close always. May we appreciate dads for all that they do and for those who need a bit more help, may they get that help. And may we send all father’s here and in Heaven, prayers of appreciation and for growth along their journey.
Dad making cocktails is a whole different story! Dad was a pro mixologist, or so said his friends. A story for another day.