Anne BralyThinking about Father’s Day, I’m fondly remembering my father’s attempts at cooking. Toasting bread and lathering it with blackberry jam or pouring milk over a bowl of Cheerios were about the extent of his culinary skills. But did he ever love to eat and never failed to appreciate even a marginally fair meal. How he ever maintained a slender frame throughout most of his life I will never know.
There were four things he disliked, though: pineapple, coconut, dill pickles and Coca-Cola. I remember that, throughout my childhood, I was told to try everything on my plate, and he would watch as I choked down liver, rutabagas, turnips and mincemeat pie – the four things I disdain.
By the time I was in my mid-teens, I’d had enough, so I made him a plate of dill pickles, chunks of pineapple and added a Mounds bar for good measure – the only coconut we had in the house since Momma loved them. I set the plate and an ice-filled glass of Coke in front of him and, after a silent, 30-second staredown between us, he picked up his fork, cut the pickle into bite-sized pieces and unwrapped the candy bar, then ate every bite and washed it down with the Coke.
I don’t know who won the battle that day. Actually, I’d call it a draw. He never had another soda, nor did he eat another dill pickle or bite of pineapple or knowingly ever eat any more coconut. And I never had to eat another bite of liver, rutabaga, turnip or mincemeat.
But there were also three things he loved above all others: shrimp, pasta and curry powder. Combine all three, and he was putty in your hands.