Come Back When You Can Stay Longer

I was talking with a friend of mine tonight who requested that I post a particular story about my father that she is tertiarially involved in.

Don't say I don't do anything for you, love. :)

Alright.

I have made mention in the past about my fathers abiding love for Rachel Ray. If she told my father to eat goose poop on a dust bunny salad, I would be cooking it for dinner. (Don't ask me where I would find the geese. Dust bunnies I can do.)

Also, please keep in mind that my father grew up during the depression. He was by no means homeless or starving (unlike a good portion of America in that time), but he did learn to eat and appreciate some of the weirdest and/or grossest things on the planet. (Like Tomato Aspic Salad. Fucking GROSS. Or my childhood nemesis, Pea Salad. Green jello, into which you pour chopped raw cabbage and CANNED PEAS. You gel it, then serve it with mayonnaise on top. I still will not eat jello is there is anything in it. ANYTHING.)

So, with my fathers culinary indiscretions in mind, onward.

I am on the phone with my friend at the time--who is a consummate cook herself and was married to a professional chef--while attempting to fix dinner for my father. This was at the beginning of the "What will dad eat?" phase, where I cooked anything and everything, whether or not I found it appealing (Chicken livers, anyone?) in attempt to get dad some caloric intake.

I am muttering to myself about various casseroles, sandwiches....Asking my friend for ideas. From the living room, my father yells:

"Ham Hawaiian, Babe!"

I ignore him, having seen the recipe on the counter already.

"BABE!?? Ham Hawaiian! I left the recipe on the counter! Rachel (they were on a first name basis, apparently) made it yesterday!"

My friend is laughing. Wants to know what Ham Hawaiian is.

Gross, that's what.

You take ham steak. (Not the normal, good, salty and delicious ham steak you are all thinking of. No, the canned, processed, pre-sliced 'ham' steak that comes in a plastic wrapper filled with its own putrescent juices. The sweet, chewy, cloying false ham that was so huge in the state I used to live in.) You then char this....ham....in a pan with a 'glaze' made of mustard, brown sugar, pepper, clove powder, pineapple and grenadine. It has the potential to be good, with some tweaking. Like, oh, on a real fucking ham, perhaps. (I have seen REAL Hawaiian ham recipes. They look delicious. Nothing like this one. Ms.Ray, you dropped the ball here.)

I am muttering to myself about how I don't want to make this. How if I do, I want to tweak the recipe to my own specifications and not make it candied, which is what it is going to be. My friend is laughing her ass off.

My father does not agree.

"BOO! (Yes, that was my nickname. My whole life. He wasn't just trying to startle me into compliance.) (It's the shortened version of another more embarrassing nickname that I will not mention here.) Doesn't it look good? I think it sounds great....will hit the spot!"

I cannot change the recipe. He will know.

I make the damn candied fake ham, but I put more mustard, more pineapple chunks. Some ginger. I hide the recipe so he won't be able to compare.

I serve.

Dad takes one bite. (I am off the phone by now, having reduced my friend to a puddle from her laughing at my candied ham plight.)

He looks at me, eyebrows furrowed.

"You screwed with the recipe, didn't you?"

He doesn't give me time to defend myself.

"Hey, Rachel is a PROFESSIONAL. She gets paid to think up great recipes. Has she ever made something that wasn't good? I doubt it. That's why she's famous! She has her own goddamn TV show, for chrissakes. Don't try to fix it if it isn't broken, babe. I mean, come on."

Sigh.

"Dad, if it doesn't taste good, there's more 'ham'. I can make it again."

"No, babe, it's actually really good. I was worried hers was going to be too sweet."

It's my turn to furrow my eyebrows.

"But you still shouldn't screw with a masterpiece."

**************************************************

Since we are on the topic, I have another one for you.

My father was a recliner man. (Can't blame him there.) His last recliner, which I still own, was an off-white leather la-z-person, positioned so that it made a perfect triangle with the wood stove, the TV, and the ashtray/coaster where his drink was located. We still refer to it as the "Captains Chair".

My designated place in the living room was the couch--one corner specifically. It was as close to the TV/Ashtray/Wood stove as I could get. It was also just out of arms reach of my dad.

Sometimes I would fall asleep on the couch. (What? I can hear all of you gasping in disbelief. Really?) Hey, it happens.

If my father needed something from me while I was sleeping, or, most often, wanted to see if I was asleep, rather than say something, or, oh, look, he would pick up the newspaper and hit me in the head with it.

I'm serious. He wouldn't roll it up or anything, but he would still rap me in the head. Depending on my reaction, he would either laugh at me, apologise, or quickly pretend that he hadn't actually hit me at all.

I hated this.

He would also bang the unfurled newspaper to illustrate a point. I'm not sure what point is illustrated by hitting your youngest daughter in the forehead while she is asleep, but I'm not a parent yet. Maybe this is the sort of thing my mother keeps referring to when she says "You'll understand when you have kids."