It didn't happen all at once.
..... in fact, it seems like yesterday I was sitting atop the washing machine, making fun of my dad's breakfast.
....or vehemently protesting his making me eat "just one more" spoonful of Malt-o-Meal before school.
On his days off, Daddy's "most important meal of the day" usually consisted of fried eggs, bacon, sausage, lox, and Shredded Wheat softened in a bath of Half-n-Half. Were grits available in New Mexico back then, I've no doubt he'd make room for another bowl, decorated with generous pads of oleo. ('Real' butter was too costly.)
Like his daughter, my dad wasn't fond of fruit. But you get the idea.
No, my love affair with breakfast didn't happen all at once. Well into my 40's, I seldom ate before Noon -- then enjoyed a hearty dinner around 8 or 9 o'clock.
Breakfast was for retirees ... or health nuts. (LOL)
Then, nearly 12 years ago I moved 2,000 mi. west and began work at a resort -- whose on-site restaurant offered generous employee discounts. I ask you, how many times can anyone ignore the intoxicating aromas of morning carbs passing right past their desk?
An unintentional whimper (or several) probably escaped my lips before I caved.
|NOT a normal meal ... but ooooh, so tempting!|
Nowadays, come 8:30 or 9AM I'm usually ravenous.
Well, Supper's for young folk ... and health nuts. :)
There's precious little I recall of time spent with my dad. (Given some changes in background, Billy Crystal's marvelous 700 Sundays might as well have been written about me!)
But how my dad and I shared a love of eating ... noshing ... dining. Whatever.
If only to make my son smile at the memory, I'll sometimes adopt a faraway look: "You know, I could really go for ...."
(The correct response is usually, "a pistachio milkshake.")
Speaking of memories ...
In honor of my dad, the other day I observed a ritual he taught me when I was but 7-8 years old: Killing coconuts.
I'd spread old newspapers across the back stoop while Dad gathered his screwdriver and hammer. Then, in the manner of a placekicker's assistant, he'd hold the coconut steady while I drove the screwdriver's tip deep inside. Once, twice, 3 times.
I'd watch in fascination when he upended the coconut, allowing the 'milk' to drain into an old jelly glass.
Then we'd take turns smashing the 'hull' into bite-size pieces.
We probably didn't 'play' with our food more than half a dozen times, but that old ritual remains one of my fondest memories.
Last night a friend from high school commented on my FB page, "Father's Day is hard." Yes, Patty..... but aren't we so blessed by the memories!
Wishing you all a wonderfully MEMORABLE tomorrow.
Hugs from Phoenix,