I missed Father’s Day. Not that my father noticed. He has been gone since 1979. He never got to meet my son or the love of my life. He never knew that I eventually did get a job, moved to California, raised a family and broke 100 on the golf course. When you lose a parent, either by death or just at the mall, you never really get over it. The pain fades, but your memories and influences never do. I quote my father nearly every day. I hear his words coming out of my mouth when I speak to my son and I now see his receding hairline and wrinkles when I look in the mirror. Fortunately, I also enjoy his same rye sense of humor and some have said his wit. He was a man of few words, and that I am not. Mother needed some contribution.
One of the ways that I remember my father is through his sometimes peculiar tastes. Most of the food that he concocted did not require any heat. I think that was the line that his 1950s sensibility made him draw. Although a feminist and an equal rights advocate all of his adult life, he didn’t “cook”. He did “make” things in the kitchen from time to time; usually on Saturday as a snack with a beer. Did I mention that I like an occasional beer. That is also thanks to William Aber Brooks. Here is one of those snacks. It’s not much of a recipe, but I bet you didn’t think of it. I also get to write about my dad, so who cares if it ain’t Julia Child.
Serves one father and his son
- 4 Pieces of Ciabatta
- Cream Cheese
- Handful of Green, Pitted Olives (Stuffed with pimentos or anchovy)
- Butter Knife
- Spread the cheese liberally on the bread. My father would have used white, so the ciabatta is as close as I will come. Toast it if you like.
- Cut the olives in half or thirds if they are really big and arrange on the sandwich.
- Cut in half.
- Serve on the front porch with a cold PBR.