In Dad's Kitchen

Dad and Mitzie in the kitchen. 2007

If I hadn't known about the tumor, I would have thought he had just returned from the Bahamas. The mottled brown skin, a side effect of chemotherapy, belonged to a polo-wearing executive not my father.

Protruding collarbones and sagging skin under his jaw were evidence of the thirty pounds he had lost since surgery. A diminished sense of taste ruined his appetite so meals were various flavors of Boost, a highly caloric protein drink. His mouth was persistently dry and he spoke with a slight slur, as though his tongue were thick.

I looked forward to summer visits with Dad. I would sit on a stool in the kitchen while he and my stepmother rinsed, chopped, and sautéed vegetables in tandem, deftly avoiding each other as they changed stations in the small space. Meals would cover the 3’ by 3’ island and the kids could choose what to put on their plates. Afterwards, dirty dishes disappeared in a blink. I gave no thought to what we would eat at Dad’s; they enjoyed cooking, there was always plenty to eat and it was always good. I had a front row seat at a cooking show.

This summer my stepmother was out of town on a previously scheduled trip. Dad spent most of his time in the living room watching MSNBC, drinking Boost and would retire early. The kids’ dirty drink glasses sat on the island where they’d left them hours earlier. As I loaded them into the dishwasher and searched for detergent I thought how unnatural it felt to clean up, as if my dad and stepmother didn’t exist.

Years earlier, after my parents’ divorce, visits with Dad meant eating homemade lasagna instead of Campbell's Bean with Bacon soup. As I rummaged through his refrigerator and cabinets it dawned on me that the preparation and enjoyment of food was how we connected; it was an expression of love.

Conversation came easily when he cooked. We talked politics and he shared stories from his firefighting days. When asked about his childhood and deceased parents he shared that his maternal grandfather operated a fishery in the early 20^th century. He told the story of how his father, as a member of the Canadian Expeditionary Force during WWI, earned medals for bravery and showed them to the boys. Dad was a natural storyteller.

My boys have come to expect things when they visit their grandpa- fireworks on the patio, playing baseball and soccer in the large yard and hitting golf balls off the neighbor’s tee onto the flats of the Black River. When Dad whipped up a batch of Jiffy Mix waffles, the boys cheered, and breakfast at Grandpa Eddie’s was confirmed as part of our summer visit tradition. For me, it was an appreciated sliver of normalcy.

Dad is on the mend and I’m grateful. His positive attitude enables him to take the cancer in stride. The tumor is gone but so is a cherished part of our relationship. My hope is that it is temporary.