My father has been gone since 1979. He never got to meet my son or the love of my life. He never knew that I eventually did get a job, moved to California, raised a family and broke 100 on the golf course. When you lose a parent, either by death or just at the mall, you never really get over it. The pain fades, but your memories and influences never do. I quote my father nearly every day. I hear his words coming out of my mouth when I speak to my son and I now see his receding hairline and wrinkles when I look in the mirror. Fortunately, I also enjoy his same rye sense of humor and some have said his wit. He was a man of few words, and that I am not. Mother needed to contribute something.
One of the ways that I remember my father is through his sometimes peculiar tastes. Most of the food that he concocted did not require any heat. I think that was the line that his 1950s sensibility made him draw. Although a feminist and an equal rights advocate all of his adult life, he didn’t “cook.” He did “make” things in the kitchen from time to time—usually on Saturday as a snack with a beer. Did I mention that I like an occasional beer? That is also thanks to William Aber Brooks. Here is one of those snacks. It’s not much of a recipe, but I bet you didn’t think of it. I also get to write about my dad, so who cares if it ain’t Julia Child.
Serves one father and his son
- 4 Pieces of Ciabatta
- Cream Cheese
- Handful of Green, Pitted Olives (Stuffed with pimentos or anchovy)
- Butter Knife
- Spread the cheese liberally on the bread. My father would have used white, so the ciabatta is as close as I will come. Toast it if you like.
- Cut the olives in half or thirds if they are really big and arrange on the sandwich.
- Cut in half.
- Serve on the front porch with a cold PBR.
(Reprinted from My Delicious Year: 366 Days of Writing, Recipes and Sheer Panic)