Fathers are masters of
comfort food. They are the meat preparers, the cheese enthusiasts, the
indulgers in dessert. They are the ones who favor yummy decadence over
every day nutrition. I lucked out and got a lasagna enthusiast.
In those days, my father
always began cooking with a speech that was a sort of homage to the ingredients.
Do whatever you have to do to get fresh mozzarella, he would begin. My
dad had found the few good spots for authentic Italian ingredients, and
he never spared himself those trips, though they were nowhere near our
home. He knew what was important.
I loved watching him
shape the meatballs with an easy touch as he explained these important
rules. While the sauce simmered we would sit together in the kitchen and
play cards. I would watch him play solitaire and encourage him to cheat.
He would grin and say he would never do that.
The torture time was
when it was out of the oven and setting for five minutes. That was a concept
I didn’t understand. We would plow into the lasagna and eat massive
quantities of the delicious treat, but there was always enough left for
lunch the next day. That was my father’s favorite- always declaring
that it was even better the second day.
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