As with every year, shortly after celebrating life, we celebrate death. Well, perhaps commemorate instead of celebrate, though we do wind up sharing a lot of laughs, maybe a few tears, stories about my father’s life, my father’s death, the beginning, the end, the middle… but always, good food. Good food will always bring and keep my family together.
And so it was, this chilly Halloween evening, that we gathered at his favorite restaurant, and ordered some of his favorite dishes, and feasted together. Some things have changed, and some things haven’t.
Under the watchful gaze of my mother, we ate, and I wondered how, ten years later, anyone can survive the loss of their partner, their love, their life.
And yet, my mother did, and continued to raise her three children, grown as we may have been when my father passed, with all the strength and grace that anyone could have expected from her. Dignity in the face of an unfair hand dealt her… these are things I could not imagine myself keeping within the same situation. I admire my mother, for her strength, her beauty, her amazing dignity, even while she endured the worst: losing a loved one slowly, witnessing their suffering, watching the indignities of a disease meant to rob one of all pride, all joy, all life. Staying by my father’s side as kidney cancer fiercely took over his body, spreading and eventually shutting down all of his organs; I’m not sure it’s a choice I’d have the strength to make as she did.
I’ve mentioned before that you can’t go home again; and it’s true. Return as I may to the home in which I grew older, it will never be the same. The newsletter my father so proudly put together using Clip Art all those years ago still hangs by the intercom; my father’s handwriting on my bedroom’s Dry Erase board telling me to wake up from my dreaming (oh, the stories I could tell you…); his touches still linger here and there, while his urn sits proudly on the entertainment center. But in the end, it will never be the same, day to day, things change, things shift, and one day, I’ll blink, and it really will be as though it were all just a dream. Ten years passed so fast. I had my father for all of twenty years and four days; I could lament that it was too short, but is it really ever long enough? Do people who lose their parents at forty ever think, “Well, I had them a good forty years, I didn’t need them anymore, anyway”? Of course not. It’s always too short. It’s always too soon before you wake up and realize you can’t call just to say hi, and you’ll never be able to take back all those times you childishly yelled “I hate you! You’re ruining my life!” You’ll never be able to look back with them and laugh about the time you insisted your hair would look good dyed… and it did. It did.
When he first passed away, I wondered aloud and often if it would ever stop hurting. Both the meanest and yet kindest thing anyone ever said to me was, “No, Yvo, it will never stop hurting, and it might even hurt more than it hurts now before it gets better.” I remember sitting there, reading those words (because they were online, of course), in total shock, but eventually realizing that he was right. It will never stop hurting. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t get better. It just becomes a new kind of hurt, the kind you return to every once in a while, the kind that reminds you that you are alive, and the kind that pushes you forward, to succeed, to make your own life better, to make your father proud of who you’ve become.
Because no, you can’t go home again, but that doesn’t mean that one day, you won’t feel as though you did anyway. You make your own home… wherever you are.
Love you, Dad. Ten years, never forgotten… and my moment of realization this year, how you are so deeply a part of who I am and why I am the way I am:
You always taught me, from a very young age, that “people eat with their eyes first” – how many times did you send me back into the kitchen after trying to serve you an awesome sandwich that was plated incorrectly? From then on, I always styled my food like someone would be photographing it. That someone is now me.
Thanks, Dad, for leading me to where I am, even when you weren’t there for me to follow.
RIP – 12/28/45 – 10/31/00
Pictures of meal from High Pearl.
TT says
what a loving tribute to your dad!
i am glad to have been fortunate enough to eat some of those yummy dishes. fried pork chop FTW!
kim says
Food not only nourishes our body, but our mind and heart as well.
That’s a very comfy spread of meal. Your father would be proud of your current (and future) accomplishments I’m sure. π
T.C. says
Veyr nice way to commemorate your father with a lovely family meal together.
That 2nd pic looked like a plate of spaghetti at first to me but it’s red steak with onions.
BeerBoor says
What a wonderful, heartfelt tribute — I’m sure you celebrate your father with every post.
Aimee says
Yvo, As much as you would gladly trade anything to have your father back, his passing so young as really had a huge hand in YOU becoming the woman you are today. You are a wonderful woman and your love for him will never change. We love you! : )))
Lkp says
That’s a lovely tribute, Yvo.
Lisa says
A touching and beautifully written post.
Hungry says
Ok, this made me cry.
Cathy says
I miss him too yvo. He would be so so proud of the woman you’ve become.
skippymom says
I just lost my Mom at the end of September and I too admired her for living so long after my Dad, her best friend died in 2003. She was terminally ill all those years, and as much as she, and the rest of us missed him, she went on living her life and doing what she knew he wanted.
I miss them both so much. And your right – I was 37 when my Dad passed and 44 when my Mom did and I still feel ripped off. I simply couldn’t imagine had I been as young as you.
Nicely said Yvo – you always have the perfect way to say it. Hugs to you.
skippymom says
on a lighter note – the punctuation in my comment sucks and yes, I KNOW it is “you’re” and not “your”.
I blame the tears.
Shaun says
Thank you. Hits home.
π
Best,
BeefP
BlindBakerNYC says
When I eat Burmese food, which is kind of rare these days, I think of my grandmother and how much of herself she put into everything she cooked because she loved us. Every single time. And they are always good memories.
It sounds like your dad was the same way. I think he would be super proud that you absorbed the lessons he tried to impart and of the person you’ve become.
Ulla says
I can not imagine your loss. What a wonderfully touching post about food, family and loss. Thank you for sharing this. Your father sounds like he was a great person. I think he would have been super proud that you are such an admired food writer and blogger. Your blogs is one of my favorites as I trust your taste. Now that I live in Queens I find myself reading it even more.