Home Alone with Dad
December 13, 2004
Growing up, my father and I didn’t spend a whole lot of time together alone. I was fortunate enough to have a mother that stayed at home to raise her children, and when Dad came home from work, we were all together as a family. On occasion, however, when I was in my teens and my brother was away at university, my mother would go away to England to visit her family, and Dad and I were left at home to look after each other. I was never really sure who was looking after whom, but we got along well and managed to survive.
There are two occasions when Dad and I spent time alone that are particularly clear in my memory. Both occasions happened to be meals.
The first was rather uneventful. Dad took me out for dinner to an Indian restaurant. Nothing special or unusual happened, and I can’t even remember what we talked about, but I do remember that as being the first occasion I ever found myself out to dinner with my father on my own, and wondered if my friends did this kind of thing. I was sure they didn’t and that I was very lucky. Dad always knew what to order in an Indian restaurant, ordering different foods every time. Me, I always ordered Saag Gosht (Lamb with a spinach sauce). I still do. I usually veer away from having a favourite dish that I feel compelled to order in a restaurant, but not with Saag Gosht. Ever since that day, it has been a necessary part of any Indian meal for me, and one that I just can’t pass up.
My second memory of Dad and I sharing alone time over a meal was at home when Mum was out of town. Food has always held a place of great importance in my family. We are a family of eaters who really enjoy our meals, and I believe food consumes many of our thoughts throughout the day. When Mum was out of town, I’m sure Dad probably spent even more time thinking about food for, with the primary caretaker absent, the burden of providing meals suddenly came to rest on his shoulders. My confidence in the meal hour was rattled – wondering not only if a meal would appear, but what it might actually be if it did!
My father doesn’t cook regularly, but he has his special dishes that he prepares every once in a while. Often these dishes appear in the morning for breakfast. You’d think, then, that Dad’s specialties might be simple dishes like scrambled eggs or pancakes. Not so. Breakfast in my father’s world was anything but ordinary. When friends slept over at my house, it was not uncommon for us to walk in on my father having Souse (pickled pig’s feet and tail with cucumber) for breakfast. I know he timed this in conjunction with sleepovers just to harass me and test the valour of my friends as he offered them a plate of their own.
One morning, Dad made his special salt fish breakfast for me. I was about 14 or 15 years old and always willing to try new foods – it never occurred to me not to, in fact. Though I can’t remember what exactly Dad put in his salt fish mixture, I do remember that he neglected to soak the salt fish first – a critical step – and breakfast was barely edible.
At first I didn’t see this as a problem, for when we were kids, my father never felt obliged to remain at the table while the children were finishing their meal. He would always leave the table and get on with whatever it was he needed to get on with. I knew, sitting there at the table with my salt fish dilemma, that if I just waited for a minute or two, Dad would get up and I would be able to dispose of my plate without hurting his feelings. Wrong. Apparently the rules had changed because we were on our own, just the two of us. Dad waited patiently for me to finish my meal. I pushed the salt fish around the plate. I ate my toast. I drank my juice. I ate more toast. I contemplated taking up coffee. I pushed my food around some more. Dad sighed. Dad waited. It was uncomfortable. In retrospect, I don’t know why I didn’t just bite the bullet, so to speak, and force the meal down. I suppose in my typically dramatic teenage way, that was an absolutely impossible concept. I won. Finally, Dad said he had to go and got up from the table. I snuck into the bathroom and made quick work of the salt fish. Saved.
I don’t know if my father ever knew why that meal took so long. I expect he does now. It’s alright though. Since then, Dad has redeemed himself by making “Denys’ Died and Gone to Heaven Herring Salad” several times. Perhaps, with his permission, I will post the recipe here.