All Roads Lead Back To Pasta

One thing my dad and I always had in common was a love of great food. While his taste became more refined, thanks to his lengthy residencies in France and Spain, mine leaned towards comfort classics and desserts, 

Long before however, when I was a little kid, his pantry was noticeably bare aside from a lone box of Cookie Crisp Cereal. I  remember Saturday mornings, while he was still asleep, climbing on the counter to reach it on the top shelf. It felt almost clandestine, but I always knew Dad could care less. If it brought joy to the eater, it didn't matter what it was or when it was eaten.

If Dad picked me up from my Nana's house she would always send home a bag of groceries for us. Fresh oranges and grapefruits, milk, cold fried chicken, Jiffy Pop and Wonder bread. I wonder if she could see the look of relief on my face knowing we would have food at Dad's apartment. That bag of groceries gave me a sense of security that I never felt at my father's home. Nana's house represented safety and a schedule I could count on.

Sometimes we would go to the frozen yogurt shop late at night for dinner or the movie theater for popcorn. I would start planning the lie I would tell Mom when Dad dropped me off. She always demanded to know what I had eaten while I was with him. I was afraid if she knew the truth of my junk food, infrequent meal weekend, she would forbid me from seeing him even less than I already was. Even though Dad's artsy lifestyle was unpredictable, I hated the thought of no contact.

Dad never settled down, but did eventually marry my stepmom after my brother was born. He was forced to somewhat reign in his lifestyle, thanks to her assertiveness. Years later, they both found huge career success as a result of her tenacity and grit. Of course success resulted in a whole new chaotic lifestyle that would eventually break their 30 years together.

Dinner would often mean pancakes but that was OK because my stepmom made these amazing huge pancakes that were thin and crispy with a slight burnt edge. It was a meal that got us all around one dinner table. The few times I was there for dinner were exciting because I could be with my step sisters and brother. I felt I had the support and camaraderie of siblings dealing with our weird parents. I was less alone and I felt the tiniest bit of normalcy.

Empty cupboards at my Dad and stepmom's house wasn't always (but I think sometimes in the earlier days) due to lack of funds, it was also due to priorities and lack of time. Grocery shopping wasn't high on a list for two people trying to break into the competitive art and interior design world of California and beyond.

As we grew older the contents of the fridge morphed from pancake batter and the stale heels of wheat bread to a wedge of Brie cheese and Stone Ground crackers. As their careers bloomed, meals were consumed at restaurants and that's when Dad's love for food really seemed to surface. I think traveling and unlimited financial resources played a part in igniting a passion for it. 

Suddenly he was collecting and reading cookbooks and hosting dinners. He became this know it all foodie. I found it very unsettling. Looking back, I realize it was jealousy. Dad had discovered yet one more talent in his life. He already had plenty. Couldn't he share the talent gene pool a bit? I also found I was angry because he didn't pursue cooking when I was young and in need of security.

He would call and boast about his latest culinary endeavors and newest food discoveries. He would wax on about regional olive oils, chef friends and the freshest mozzarella cheese. I would attempt to share something about a type of butter and he would act like he already knew. By then he was fluent in 5 languages and the ability to show off his genius was incomparable. 

As I observed his passion soar to new heights,  I was terrified for him to try my baking because of his refined palate and sharp critique of flavor profiles.

The first time I handed my dad a scone, I avoided eye contact. He took a bite and his face brightened. Shortly after he passed away I was told by his friends that he would brag about my baking. He would claim my scones were the best he had ever eaten and he 'should know because he's been all over the world.' I know it sounds silly but the fact a stupid scone brought my dad joy, meant the world to me.

Food divided us when I was young but reunited us when I was older. Rather than begrudging my dad for his inability to have food in the house growing up, we found connection and comfort in sharing about Nana's cooking and how it shaped our relationship with food and family as adults. 

We said goodbye to the past movie theater popcorn for dinner. We shared some trips to the farmers market and ate pasta and garlic bread at Nana's. He would encourage me to buy dessert at restaurants so we could both try it. He would order all the appetizers because they would change my view of California cuisine. He introduced me to the beauty of restaurant gardens and farm to table meals. We made dinner plans while we were still eating lunch.

Restaurants became my dad's stage. He could perform for hours by ordering food in another language, running up a huge wine tab, chatting up the staff, flirting with servers, talking about France and art and making jokes to other customers. All of this on a weekday afternoon. Dinner resembled an evening performance of a one man play. Fabulous outfits, a credit card and a desire to impress strangers laid the foundation for the plot, reaching it's conclusion when he settled his tab late at night with promises to call in the morning.  

Towards the end my dad was incredibly sick and led a very reclusive life. Most of us didn't even realize the severity of his illness. His eating (and lack thereof) habits had returned to those of his young Dad days. Going through the receipts in his car proved it. Meals consisted of Taco Bell and daily trips to the Chevron Mini Mart. 

But on Sunday mornings he would show up to my Aunt's and Nana's house for pasta and Sunday gravy. On days he needed to reset he returned to the food that brought him true joy, to a place where he didn't need to perform in order to find acceptance. I only wish he could have enjoyed more of them.