Today I Feel Like Talking About My Dad
on Apr 10, 2013, Updated Oct 26, 2022
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My dad died Sunday. The words don’t look right sitting on the page, they don’t feel like they belong to me, they must have been written by someone else, someone with a dead father.
He was sick for 6 months. A long time. No, a short time. Kind of a lifetime. It was brain cancer, and the kind where from the beginning you know what the end of the story will be, you just don’t know how many pages the book has or what happens in the chapters leading up to the end.
My dad was an amazing man. I can say it, and mean it, but he was actually the kind of amazing man where a lot of other people are saying it, too.
Dad was an eater. Boy, did he love food. And like all great eaters, he was just as eye-rollingly happy with a fantastic tuna salad and a box of Triscuits as he was with a multi-course meal at Le Bernardin. He was probably happiest if there were ribs involved. We are a full on food family; my mother, my sister and I all cook, we entertain, we are the type of family that talks about lunch with our mouths full of breakfast.
Dad talked about really good food with reverence and huge joy, as he talked about a stirring symphony or a wonderful piece of art. There were italics in the way he spoke of something he loved. ”That cheese is marvelous!” “She made a chocolate tart that was in fact, very possibly the best chocolate tart in the world.” “The meal was just simply extraordinary. No really, it was extraordinary.” He really wanted you to understand Just. How. Good. This. Was. Though often from the look on his face you weren’t quite getting how extraordinary this meal had been.
He ate very slowly. Like, very slowly. As in, on any typical Thanksgiving people were starting in on the pies and he was reaching for another wing.
It took a little while for his appetite to change, and there were a bunch of ebbs and flows. Early on, there were still requests for pastrami sandwiches, turkey platters with all the trimmings. At the end a sip of apple juice was a chore.
Right after his surgery in late September, which was right after his diagnosis, he was in the hospital and a specialist came in and cheerfully announced, “Hi, I’m Cindy from Swallowing!” It wasn’t a joke; she was there to evaluate his ability to chew and swallow. She spooned a little canned pear into his mouth, then let him nibble a Lorna Doone. “I think we can put you onto a mechanical soft diet!” she announced, explaining that that meant small bites of pre-cut soft foods. She left. Dad looked at me, and opened a bag of pretzels someone had left lying around and ate them. Bite that, Cindy from Swallowing.
We all made him food. Sometimes he wanted to eat it, sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he would take a bite, sometimes he would eat a real meal, sometimes he would just smile and shrug.
The night before Christmas he was back in the hospital and I told him I would bring dinner the next night, and asked him what he wanted. He didn’t know. I suggested chicken soup, noodle pudding — unchallenging, gentle foods. “How about prime rib?” suggested a visiting friend. “Oh, yes, and Yorkshire pudding!” he said. And the next night he ate it, our family sitting in a shitty windowless conference/supply room with hideously bright fluorescent lights and the occasional nurse popping into the room for a fresh bandage or catheter.
Towards the end when he wasn’t eating much at all, I cut a paper thin sliver of pear and handed it to him. He ate it very slowly. His nurse and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows, a silent tiny triumph. I handed him another transparent slice. Then another. One hour later, the pear was eaten. It was the most beautiful core of fruit I have ever seen.
If food is love, and someone won’t or can’t eat, it feels terrible.
So, my dad died on Sunday. We are all doing kinda sorta ok, for now, and because it’s my way of coping you will shortly see this blog ramped up again with recipes, and food-and-family reflections and the like. But today I feel like talking about my dad.
Katie,
My heartfelt condolences go out to you and your family. I lost my father almost 3 years ago to cancer and found it extermely difficult to watch his appetite for the foods he loved, especially my cioippino, become non-existant. Those of us who love food, love feeding others. I am sure that having you for his daughter gave him joy and love to last a lifetime and beyond. Hold his memory close.
Pamela
My father died in the summer 3 years ago and I will always remember driving around the blazing hot Valley looking for the best plums, his favorites and the last fruit he could eat–in tiny slices. But the last thing both my parents actually swallowed was ice cream–a family obsession. We went on vacation to eat, eating one meal while planning the next. The cookbooks your Dad published changed the world of the home cook and I am so sorry for your loss.
Katie, beautifully written and I am sorry for your loss – a few weeks ago I lost someone very close (who was also so amazing other people have been saying it)…Seeing your post in my email caught my eye…
Your pear story is beautiful, if short…Thank you for sharing. Seemingly small moments like that can mean so much. Hopefully it brought you some kind of comfort, given how much the experience of food meant to your dad.
So sorry for your loss. Lost my Dad in Sept. Totally appreciate and relate your comment about “Cindy from Swallowing” and paper thin slices of pears. Enjoy your wonderful memories.
I met tour father just once. It was probably thirty years ago. I was running the Paperback Dept at Harper and was asked by management along with a couple of colleagues to
take Peter to lunch, ostensibly to find out if his
company was for sale.. How naive colld we be? About half way
through the meal, Peter got the drift and was, I think, greatly amused.
He indicated pretty firmly he was not in the least interested which,
in retrospect is no surprise.Of course I am huge admirer of all he accomplished and was moved by your tribute
Thank you for that story!
moved to tears, all my thoughts & love are with you and your family. Cook through it, write through it, cry through it. Your Dad was, is and will always be so proud of you. x
What a lovely tribute. Your father was one of the few true innovators in publishing and one of the reasons I became a writer. I was in my college bookstore at the U of Iowa way back in the day and saw a copy of The Cat Catalog. I had never seen a book that looked like so much fun and thought, okay, I have just got to be part of this. Fast forward to NY all these years late, having lunch with my agent last week, and when told me your dad had died, I teared up because there still is simply no one like him. Over the years I have bought and enjoyed so many wonderful Workman books. I never wrote one for your dad, but I wrote many because of him. Hope the tradition carries on!
Katie,
So sorry for your loss. You lost your Dad and we lost a visionary. Tough sledding, both. After a while it is a good thing to remember the good times and recall the funny and keen moments of his life. Sounds like he loved food, life, work and laughter equally.
Best wishes to you and your family.
I like the tough sledding phrase. thanks.
The great love of food, we remember events with food. My mother also had brain cancer and her last request was soy sauce game hens, my father rushed back to cooked for her, but she could only eat a little of it. Much sympathy.
thank you for sharing that.
I just happened on your blog, I’m not a regular, but this post struck a chord. My cousin, who is father to 3 boys all 18 and younger, has been diagnosed with brain cancer. Though we are all trying to be strong, it is hard to face this diagnosis on so many levels. Though we are strangers, I am wishing you understanding and acceptance, and sending you a big, virtual hug.
And all good thoughts to your cousin, thank you so much.