Cooking
Katherine D. Bennett
(First published in the Lathrop News Thursday, October 17, 1996)
I think my father is brave. As a matter of fact, I know he is brave. Maybe not the Indiana Jones kind of brave, but courageous non-the-less. Not only did he work hard all of his life at a tedious, demanding job, and raise a family during the free-spirited seventies, but he survived with uncommon grace and courage the process of four daughters learning to cook. It must have been a terrible ordeal, but he doesn’t seem to hold any grudges against us.
Now, I understand, that in some families, anything instant is considered food, and that’s okay. It’s just not true in my family. Cooking has always been a pretty big deal. As a matter of fact, my cousin, Mike, is a real chef with the hat and everything. Most of the cooks in my family take food preparation a tad bit too seriously, and the debate over whether or not to add just a bit of sugar to potato salad has been raging for years, (I say no-it makes potato salad too sweet.)
Anyway, given this, my father never stood a chance. He was experimented on more than any other member of the animal kingdom. When I was five, I made a special cake for Dad that my family still talks about to this day. I sneaked into the kitchen very early one morning and put syrup, Tabasco, crackers, blue food coloring and a cup of sugar in a pot pie tin and cooked it off top of the stove. My grandmother, who was visiting, caught me and turned the whole thing off before I burned the house down. She was going to throw the mess out, but I was so disappointed that my Dad sat down and ate the mess with many pieces of toast and multiple cups of coffee. Now, let me tell you, that took an iron will.
I have to admit, I am one of the lesser cooks in my family, though most folks don’t complain about the food at my house. As a matter of fact, Mom and Dad were up for dinner a few days ago and he really enjoyed the smothered steak, real mashed potatoes, homemade gravy, spiced green beans and buttered corn. He ate with confidence, secure in the knowledge his daughter could prepare a meal.
“Guess what?” I said proudly, “Your granddaughter fixed dessert all by herself.”
Dad turned pale. A resigned, sad look flashed across his face. He glanced at my beaming face and then he looked at the hopeful pride in my daughter’s face.
“Good. That’s good.” The courage was still there. I could see the resolve growing in his eyes. “I’d love to have some.. .but. . could I have a small portion, please?”