Vacation will be a time for writing
Wrote up a full chapter this time. Phew! Lots more time with Dad coming up while the ham cooks. More dreams then Thanksgiving.
[2012.11.18][1712][23084]
Beth pulled out the largest metal mixing bowl for the marinade ingredients. Satisfied that it was clean enough, she opened the first can of pineapples and dumped it in, tossing spices into the first layer. Dad gathered a knife and a cutting board to chop a clove of garlic for the marinade, mincing quickly. He motioned for her to open the can of sugary peaches and put that in the marinade as well.
“Whoa, we’re being experimental tonight.” Beth hooked the can opener onto the peach can. “Not sure how good this is going to turn out, Dad.”
“Traditional recipes are for suckers, Bethie.” Dad chuckled, a fiery look in his eyes. “We’re already cooking it all in one night, so we’re doing far off the recipe book.”
Beth smiled at him. If there was one thing she missed in college it was Dad’s zest for experimental recipes. He had discovered Szechuan cuisine at a conference once while she was in high school and for months afterward, the entire house never stopped smelling of MSG and chili peppers. The smell of spicy Chinese food wafting into her dorm hall never failed to make Beth wonder what her father was doing. And more importantly, what her mother was possibly eating. Or was contemplating eating, before politely turning it down.
Mom’s experimental mistakes had been fewer than Dad’s, but by the time Beth had developed any kind of palate for what was awful and what wasn’t, Mom already had a good system for making edible meals. Mostly, Mom had concentrated on appealing to Sam’s food quirks. Sam had always been fussy about what he would and wouldn’t eat, Beth would merely shovel things into her mouth to stop being hungry. Sam was frightened by unfamiliar foods. At some point, Mom trotted out monotonous meals every week, happy that everyone was getting fed.
Dad unwrapped the ham from its plastic covering. He rinsed the ham in the sink, then dropped it into the pan on the counter next to Beth. Beth lightly brushed the garlic bits into the marinade and mixed the gloppy, sugary mess together with a wooden spoon. “Needs thickening,” Beth mentioned.
“Flour is in the upper left hand cabinet,” Dad mentioned as he turned away to preheat the oven.
Beth grabbed the flour container, a yellow plastic box with brown flowers on it. Yanking the top off, she lightly dusted the flour over the marinade, mixing flour in well to ensure lumps didn’t form and to cause the whole marinade to become less opaque as well as more viscous. Satisfied, she put the flour back into the cabinet.
“Thirty minutes until its preheated,” Dad commented. “Usually, I’m not that fast with the marinade. Good to have you with me.”
“There are probably more things you want to put in there,” she countered. “You know, its just you and me, put in whatever you want. Mom’s not going to complain. She hates ham anyway.”
His eyes sparkled. “No, no, Sam asked specifically for nothing ridiculous this time. I was going to go with a hint of wasabi and a little bit of masala, maybe, but, that’s just me.” He pointed to the ham. “Want to drown the porker?”
She shrugged. “Of course.” Sam would be there tomorrow, then. If he asked Dad for something specific, he’d probably show up early. Beth tipped the bowl over the ham, making sure that the bulk of the glop ended up on top of the ham. Saving the rest of the marinade for numerous cycles of basting, she set the bowl aside. “So, Sam’s going to be there tomorrow?”
Dad nodded, “Spoon?” He took the wooden spoon and smoothed the remaining marinade on the top over the bulk of the meat. “We should probably give it fifteen minutes or so, then flip it.”
“Now who’s following the recipe, old man?”
He shook his head, closing his eyes. “You sound like Sam.” Dad opened his eyes. “We would cook together, he and I while he was living here.” At her surprised facial expression, he continued. “Other than the continuous insults to my oldness, he had a lot to talk about while he was here, mostly about Anne and how he feared his life was never going anywhere.” He put the wooden spoon back into the mixing bowl. “I thought that I was the only one who thought about that kind of stuff, that my son was, well, failing at life, at living. I thought I was the only one frightened that he would never get a job or move on with his life, find a purpose. I thought Mom and my sister and you were all trying to cover over it, cheer him on, put a bright shine on his failures. I thought he was always hard at work and angry with me for caring that he was failing: that’s what I knew. But he was thinking about it, too. He thought about it all the time.”
“I know,” Beth admitted. “That’s what he was like on the phone, too. Not so much about Anne, I think he knew I didn’t want to hear about his girlfriends or flavors of the month or whatever. One long Sam based pity party.”
“But he never really talked about that with me, about being afraid.”
“Dad, there’s no way he would have wanted to. You were also frowny to him, always angry at him for something.” She huffed. “Hey, I’m trying to be helpful,” Beth raised her hands in a pose of surrender. “I’m being honest, Dad. Its probably a lot less than other dads with their sons. Jerry’s dad is, well, that’s a long story. You weren’t so bad, really,” She gamely elbowed him in the side. “So, what changed?”
“Fifteen minutes?” Dad asked in reply.
Beth swiveled her head to look at the microwave clock. “Give or take a little bit, sure.” She poked him in the shoulder with a finger. “Clean hands for flipping.”
They both washed their hands with dish soap side by side over the sink. Dad flipped the ham over and Beth lightly righted the meat into the pan, scooping the leftover pan marinade onto the ham. He patted down the marinade onto the skin.
“Needs more marinade,” Dad grunted, jerking his head once toward the mixing bowl.
“Coming right up,” Beth tipped the mixing bowl once again, using the spoon to direct the flow from the bowl onto the drier spots. She put the bowl back down once she was satisfied. He continued to be silent while he was patting the deposits of marinade into the skin. She waited patiently. It was possible he wouldn’t answer her. Beth had gotten comfortable with his silences, because she knew he was thinking. Dad would not give her an answer until he knew it was how he really felt. He gave the ham one last wet pat with a marinade covered hand before stepping away to wash his hands once more.
He sighed out loud, one hip against the sink, facing her and shaking out his wet hands. Small drops of water hit the linoleum floor. She could hear it in the silence, the little ticking of their weight against the floor. The way the house breathed as the night winds blew around the house. She couldn’t hear the snoring of her mother, not that she couldn’t imagine what it sounded like, since she had listened to it almost every night she spent in the house. If Sam was here and his stereo too, his music would have been filling the living room, deep bass and ignorant lyrics filtering into the kitchen.
“What change?” Dad echoed Beth’s question. “He had to be humble this time, he had to ask for my help.” He crossed his hands across his chest. “He couldn’t sneak in. When he came back from his try at college, he talked to you and Mom and everyone assumed, even me, that everything would work out. He went back to a different college, then he came back, and we all believed that he was done with school. He would move on and get a real job, like mine, and become a regular guy.” Dad nodded. “Your mom and I, we’d help him when we could, but while you were away, we made him really work for it.” He shook his head and bit his lip. “We made him sweat for it, you know. He’d write out these complicated looking ledgers of how much money he needed, really needed.”
Beth pushed down her urge to laugh. Some of Sam’s questions about her accounting classes were beginning to make more sense to her now.
“We wanted him to know what it would take to start a real life, get a real apartment and be in control of his finances.” He poked Beth in her shoulder. “What you’ve learned how to do without us even pushing you. We pushed him. Every single time he asked for our help, he had a better idea of what he was asking for and why he was asking.”
“Professor Mom and Dad, reporting for duty,” she joked.
“Pretty much. Yes, we were trying to teach him responsibility.” He loosened his neck by moving his head side to side. “We were succeeding, too, or I thought we were. Then Anne got pregnant.”
“She was what?”
“That was Sam’s initial reaction, too. He came to us first.” Dad shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. “He came to us first, confused and begging us for guidance.” Dad inspected the ham. “I’d never seen him so . . . submissive. Asking, not demanding. He changed a lot, it changed him a lot. He was really appreciative, even though he was still Sam.”
“Mom didn’t say anything about a baby.” And neither had Sam.
“That’s more Sam’s story to tell than mine.” Dad said in a harsh tone. “I didn’t really get to know the girl very well while she was here.”
Beth expelled a bit of air in shock. “Wow, I didn’t know about that.”
“You can ask him about it. I’m not. There is no baby now and so, its not too important to me.”
Beth took a deep breath. “Oven’s preheated.”
“Let’s get this porker started.”
[2012.11.18][1712][23084]
Beth pulled out the largest metal mixing bowl for the marinade ingredients. Satisfied that it was clean enough, she opened the first can of pineapples and dumped it in, tossing spices into the first layer. Dad gathered a knife and a cutting board to chop a clove of garlic for the marinade, mincing quickly. He motioned for her to open the can of sugary peaches and put that in the marinade as well.
“Whoa, we’re being experimental tonight.” Beth hooked the can opener onto the peach can. “Not sure how good this is going to turn out, Dad.”
“Traditional recipes are for suckers, Bethie.” Dad chuckled, a fiery look in his eyes. “We’re already cooking it all in one night, so we’re doing far off the recipe book.”
Beth smiled at him. If there was one thing she missed in college it was Dad’s zest for experimental recipes. He had discovered Szechuan cuisine at a conference once while she was in high school and for months afterward, the entire house never stopped smelling of MSG and chili peppers. The smell of spicy Chinese food wafting into her dorm hall never failed to make Beth wonder what her father was doing. And more importantly, what her mother was possibly eating. Or was contemplating eating, before politely turning it down.
Mom’s experimental mistakes had been fewer than Dad’s, but by the time Beth had developed any kind of palate for what was awful and what wasn’t, Mom already had a good system for making edible meals. Mostly, Mom had concentrated on appealing to Sam’s food quirks. Sam had always been fussy about what he would and wouldn’t eat, Beth would merely shovel things into her mouth to stop being hungry. Sam was frightened by unfamiliar foods. At some point, Mom trotted out monotonous meals every week, happy that everyone was getting fed.
Dad unwrapped the ham from its plastic covering. He rinsed the ham in the sink, then dropped it into the pan on the counter next to Beth. Beth lightly brushed the garlic bits into the marinade and mixed the gloppy, sugary mess together with a wooden spoon. “Needs thickening,” Beth mentioned.
“Flour is in the upper left hand cabinet,” Dad mentioned as he turned away to preheat the oven.
Beth grabbed the flour container, a yellow plastic box with brown flowers on it. Yanking the top off, she lightly dusted the flour over the marinade, mixing flour in well to ensure lumps didn’t form and to cause the whole marinade to become less opaque as well as more viscous. Satisfied, she put the flour back into the cabinet.
“Thirty minutes until its preheated,” Dad commented. “Usually, I’m not that fast with the marinade. Good to have you with me.”
“There are probably more things you want to put in there,” she countered. “You know, its just you and me, put in whatever you want. Mom’s not going to complain. She hates ham anyway.”
His eyes sparkled. “No, no, Sam asked specifically for nothing ridiculous this time. I was going to go with a hint of wasabi and a little bit of masala, maybe, but, that’s just me.” He pointed to the ham. “Want to drown the porker?”
She shrugged. “Of course.” Sam would be there tomorrow, then. If he asked Dad for something specific, he’d probably show up early. Beth tipped the bowl over the ham, making sure that the bulk of the glop ended up on top of the ham. Saving the rest of the marinade for numerous cycles of basting, she set the bowl aside. “So, Sam’s going to be there tomorrow?”
Dad nodded, “Spoon?” He took the wooden spoon and smoothed the remaining marinade on the top over the bulk of the meat. “We should probably give it fifteen minutes or so, then flip it.”
“Now who’s following the recipe, old man?”
He shook his head, closing his eyes. “You sound like Sam.” Dad opened his eyes. “We would cook together, he and I while he was living here.” At her surprised facial expression, he continued. “Other than the continuous insults to my oldness, he had a lot to talk about while he was here, mostly about Anne and how he feared his life was never going anywhere.” He put the wooden spoon back into the mixing bowl. “I thought that I was the only one who thought about that kind of stuff, that my son was, well, failing at life, at living. I thought I was the only one frightened that he would never get a job or move on with his life, find a purpose. I thought Mom and my sister and you were all trying to cover over it, cheer him on, put a bright shine on his failures. I thought he was always hard at work and angry with me for caring that he was failing: that’s what I knew. But he was thinking about it, too. He thought about it all the time.”
“I know,” Beth admitted. “That’s what he was like on the phone, too. Not so much about Anne, I think he knew I didn’t want to hear about his girlfriends or flavors of the month or whatever. One long Sam based pity party.”
“But he never really talked about that with me, about being afraid.”
“Dad, there’s no way he would have wanted to. You were also frowny to him, always angry at him for something.” She huffed. “Hey, I’m trying to be helpful,” Beth raised her hands in a pose of surrender. “I’m being honest, Dad. Its probably a lot less than other dads with their sons. Jerry’s dad is, well, that’s a long story. You weren’t so bad, really,” She gamely elbowed him in the side. “So, what changed?”
“Fifteen minutes?” Dad asked in reply.
Beth swiveled her head to look at the microwave clock. “Give or take a little bit, sure.” She poked him in the shoulder with a finger. “Clean hands for flipping.”
They both washed their hands with dish soap side by side over the sink. Dad flipped the ham over and Beth lightly righted the meat into the pan, scooping the leftover pan marinade onto the ham. He patted down the marinade onto the skin.
“Needs more marinade,” Dad grunted, jerking his head once toward the mixing bowl.
“Coming right up,” Beth tipped the mixing bowl once again, using the spoon to direct the flow from the bowl onto the drier spots. She put the bowl back down once she was satisfied. He continued to be silent while he was patting the deposits of marinade into the skin. She waited patiently. It was possible he wouldn’t answer her. Beth had gotten comfortable with his silences, because she knew he was thinking. Dad would not give her an answer until he knew it was how he really felt. He gave the ham one last wet pat with a marinade covered hand before stepping away to wash his hands once more.
He sighed out loud, one hip against the sink, facing her and shaking out his wet hands. Small drops of water hit the linoleum floor. She could hear it in the silence, the little ticking of their weight against the floor. The way the house breathed as the night winds blew around the house. She couldn’t hear the snoring of her mother, not that she couldn’t imagine what it sounded like, since she had listened to it almost every night she spent in the house. If Sam was here and his stereo too, his music would have been filling the living room, deep bass and ignorant lyrics filtering into the kitchen.
“What change?” Dad echoed Beth’s question. “He had to be humble this time, he had to ask for my help.” He crossed his hands across his chest. “He couldn’t sneak in. When he came back from his try at college, he talked to you and Mom and everyone assumed, even me, that everything would work out. He went back to a different college, then he came back, and we all believed that he was done with school. He would move on and get a real job, like mine, and become a regular guy.” Dad nodded. “Your mom and I, we’d help him when we could, but while you were away, we made him really work for it.” He shook his head and bit his lip. “We made him sweat for it, you know. He’d write out these complicated looking ledgers of how much money he needed, really needed.”
Beth pushed down her urge to laugh. Some of Sam’s questions about her accounting classes were beginning to make more sense to her now.
“We wanted him to know what it would take to start a real life, get a real apartment and be in control of his finances.” He poked Beth in her shoulder. “What you’ve learned how to do without us even pushing you. We pushed him. Every single time he asked for our help, he had a better idea of what he was asking for and why he was asking.”
“Professor Mom and Dad, reporting for duty,” she joked.
“Pretty much. Yes, we were trying to teach him responsibility.” He loosened his neck by moving his head side to side. “We were succeeding, too, or I thought we were. Then Anne got pregnant.”
“She was what?”
“That was Sam’s initial reaction, too. He came to us first.” Dad shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. “He came to us first, confused and begging us for guidance.” Dad inspected the ham. “I’d never seen him so . . . submissive. Asking, not demanding. He changed a lot, it changed him a lot. He was really appreciative, even though he was still Sam.”
“Mom didn’t say anything about a baby.” And neither had Sam.
“That’s more Sam’s story to tell than mine.” Dad said in a harsh tone. “I didn’t really get to know the girl very well while she was here.”
Beth expelled a bit of air in shock. “Wow, I didn’t know about that.”
“You can ask him about it. I’m not. There is no baby now and so, its not too important to me.”
Beth took a deep breath. “Oven’s preheated.”
“Let’s get this porker started.”