Last Sunday was Father’s Day. My own father died in 1989. I miss him. He was only 81 when he left us. His father was 82. Guess that gives me an idea how long I’ll last.
Daddy used to love to eat. He loved some of the strange things my mother made. He loved what I made too. I remember long ago when he suggested I add more rye flour to the first two loaves of rye bread I made. I made them immediately. (The first two were being eaten fast.) I was only twelve years old. I was a good girl. I did what Daddy told me. We ended up with two loaves of what could have been very nice door stops.
Dad loved my chili and my pizza. Mom loved a night off from cooking. Of course, I never stopped making bread. I had my master recipe back then. It was good for pizza, bread sticks, onion bread, and Taos Indian bread. Izzy has gotten some of that master recipe too. Bread isn’t as easy to bake in Florida as it was in Illinois. But we still try. Chili worked well in Illinois, Arizona, and Florida. Glad enchiladas worked when I took them to Brooklyn!
For Father’s Day Izzy and I had pork chops. Ever since the iced tea experiments the beginning of June, I wanted to braise the chops in green tea infused with five-spice powder. I did it and I was glad. Daddy would have liked it. I can hear his voice now. “You made this up? It’s good. Not too spicy. Can I have more?”
Sure, Dad. You can have more. Save some for Tom and some for Ernie. There’s plenty for all my men who are no longer with me. All the men I miss . . . .
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