Sunday Dinner

As I pulled up in front of my dad’s bungalow. The lawn was mowed to golf-green lengths, the bushes were flowering in perfect synchrony and the house was in such good shape it could have been built yesterday, not many decades ago.

I walked in through the screen door, passed the open front door and called “hello! Dad?!”. I dumped my sac of a purse on the old leather couch in the small living room and went into the kitchen. The inside also reflected my father, precision, order, and everything well maintained. It also meant the space was cut up by walls and the colors and finishes were dated. But he liked it.

“Sarah! I’m out here!” I heard him call through the screen door at the back. Well, why not, it was a lovely day to be outside; sunny and not too hot. I just locked the front door quickly before joining him outside. I gave him a kiss on the cheek while he stood in front of the BBQ.

“What are we having?” I asked.

Sunday dinners were a ritual from my childhood. When he was away with the military mom kept up the tradition. And after she passed away, thirty years ago, he took over. Unfortunately, he didn’t know how to cook in his 60s, so it was a bit rough going. But he learned, starting with simple meals like roast chicken with potatoes and carrots. He even started baking bread once I gave him one of Paul Hollywood’s cookbooks.

“Cedar-plank salmon and asparagus from my neighbor,” he replied, opening the BBQ lid with a flourish.

Without meaning to I drew in a deep breath smelling the richness of the fish, the incense of the wood smoke and the freshness of spring from the asparagus. “Smells amazing,” I said.

“Where are Michael and the kids?” he asked, looking behind me.

“Ah, they were busy,” I said.

“Everyone get ready to go to Sunday dinner!” I had said a couple of hours ago to my teenager and husband.

“He tells boring stories all night,” my daughter had said.

I looked at Michael for support.

“Sorry love, I’ve got a thing tonight,” he didn’t meet my eyes.

“Fine, I’ll go alone, he’s my dad.” Inside I was shaking my head. Family comes first; that’s one of my core values.

At five-thirty on the dot dad and I sat down to eat. I was a bit ashamed that there was so much extra food.

“What have you been up to dad?” I asked.

“Oh, I’ll show you after dinner, I’ve been going through some old papers. ”

We ate for a while. The food was sublime, the salmon melted in the mouth and the asparagus had a nice, contrasting crunch.

“Do you like it?” He asked.

“It’s great! You should cook for me every night,” I smiled.

We had forgotten the wine so I opened the bottle of Pinot Grigio that I’d brought. The minerality complimented the food well.

“Did I ever tell you about the Easter Offensive in Vietnam?” He asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“We ran strike missions over and over again – pounding into the jungle. I came across a photo of me and three other pilots. Benny, … Benny didn’t make it. It could have been any of us.”

I put my hand on his as he set down his fork and covered his mouth. “He had a pregnant girlfriend back home waiting to get married. The military wouldn’t give her the death benefit, of course. So I found her and gave her what I could afford. We already had you and your sister, so it wasn’t much.” His eyes were glued to his plate.

“Dad, you did what you could, that’s more than most people,” I gave him an awkward hug since we were both sitting down.

He still didn’t look at me but his shoulders relaxed. “The neighbor gave me some strawberries as well, would you like some?”

“Of course,” I said with a smile.

Yellow and orange leaves blew past the window four months later as I stood in my dad’s kitchen. The strength of that so many Sunday dinner memories stuck my feet to the floor like crazy glue. I could see him there in front of my eyes so vividly. I blinked, and saw the reality of dust and grime that had built up on everything while he was in the hospital.

He was fading away like campfire smoke in a breeze. I thought some of his photos might anchor him a bit, or at least give him some joy and peace. I pulled his favorites from the fridge: mom on a beach trying to read, my sister and I on our bikes, and a picture of a perfect loaf of bread that he’d made after much trial and error.

Night came quickly a month later as I sat in my office in the basement of our house. I’d wanted quiet for this task. I stared at a blank page in Word. How do you speak to a man’s entire life? What do I even know about him?

At the top I wrote: Eulogy for my dad.

It didn’t help.

I closed my eyes and tried to summarize what I know about him. Age, height, weight, strictness, missed mom…. I don’t know.

I went upstairs to our modern, white kitchen with red accents. Michael was making dinner – roast salmon and new potatoes. I floated in on the scents.

It brought back the memory of that Sunday dinner with dad in the spring. Salmon, asparagus and strawberries. He’d told me one of his many war stories.

I started preparing a salad with roasted peppers, lettuce, green onions and balsamic. I thought about that spring evening.

Thinking about it I realized, he’d told me who he was with that story and all the others. They weren’t about war, they were about how it changed him, shaped him, and how he responded to it according to his values. I remembered how he found Benny’s girlfriend and gave her money because it was the right thing to do. It was like fireworks were going off. I knew how to write the eulogy now.

I got a glass of Pinot Grigio and turned to Michael. “I think we should start a Sunday dinner tradition of our own.”