My
dad was famous in our neighborhood. A legend, truth be told. During
the summer months, late in the afternoon, the neighborhood was
his.
I
exaggerate only slightly.
Macaroni
and cheese was the signature dish. He also made hot dogs. Kids
my sisters and I hung out with it loved it.
Slightly
more to the story than that, though. (Especially if we want to
build it up to legendary status.)
Dad
was working. His shift fluctuated, but mostly was based during
the day. He also frequently had weekends off as I recall.
Mom
was working. She spent decades as a respected I.C.U. nurse. Pretty
much every day of that career was spent on swing shift, working
roughly the hours of 3pm to 11pm.
That
in place, you can probably see where, with both parents working
some of the childcare was divided up based on who would be where
at what time.
Summer
evenings. Mom working. Dad ran the kitchen. And, if we’re being
completely honest, putting together peanut butter and jelly was
a culinary journey for my father.
Now
that’s a funny joke. To say fried baloney was the height of his
cooking skills absolutely sounds like I’m picking on him. But
it also means you have underestimated the power of a peanut butter
and jelly sandwich over a child.
Bicycles
would be strewn across our yard, the haphazard result of racing
from home to get permission to eat dinner with us, then racing
back and leaving it wherever. Kids with plates of hot dogs or
mac and cheese on the picnic table, glasses of lemonade being
refilled, and… well…
Dad
was delivering special work with terrific results.
My
mother had no shortage of parents telling her about how their
kids couldn’t stop talking about dinner at our house. She used
to shake her head, trying to figure out how she could spend hours
feeding us and not get nearly the same level of praise. My guess
is that a few companies owe my father some referral payments for
the kitchen cabinets that were filled as a result of “but I want
hot dogs and baked beans like I had at (our) house” cries.
My
father was universally and unerringly satisfying the unbearably
finicky child long before chicken fingers ruled the world. (Great
job, dad. Great job.)
As
a counterpoint worthy of balance, I should point out that my mother
was a legendary cook. And this time, we are placing the results
as high wire accomplishments of culinary delight.
If
she threw a Christmas party, you should expect trays… multiply
to a plural of trays, as in dozens spread around the house… trays
of cookies, featuring no fewer than ten to fifteen varieties that
she had baked herself. Buffets with everything from shrimp and
meatballs to homemade breads. As soon as people picked up the
latest calendar for the new year, they were circling dates in
December and hoping for an invitation.
Times
change.
My
mother loves watching others working in her kitchen now. She’ll
help out, gleefully with a wonderful smile, but the days upon
days of preparations and efforts are not the same for her anymore.
She’s in the shared experience and encouragement business now.
Dad?
Well,
I don’t remember the last time he picked up a box of mac and cheese
to read the instructions. I’m sure he does on occasion, or makes
some peanut butter and jelly, but the bikes aren’t lining up outside
on an August evening anymore.
For
me, though, it doesn’t feel like decades since I enjoyed those
meals. I can see them as if they are happening this evening. And
while some of mom’s pecan rolls will always top my wish list,
there are plenty of reasons why my father was the cook of childhood
memories.