I was going to save this post for Father’s Day, but then I decided it didn’t have to wait.
Growing up, my dad would wake up early every Sunday morning to make our big family breakfast. All 7 of us. Eggs, bagels, bacon, english muffins, orange juice. Since most of us have grown up and left home, he went through a phase where he lamented that Sunday breakfasts just weren’t the same.
Until, at last, he shifted his attention to Sunday dinners. Now, Sunday dinners are a marvelous affair. He doesn’t just make food, he makes gourmet meals. Barbecued macaroni and cheese with bacon, grass-fed burgers, free-range barbecued chicken wings, fried organic asparagus and green beans. Turns out, my dad can really cook.
This little act of love, of cooking for all of us gathered around the outside table, means a lot to my dad. What he probably doesn’t realize is that it means even more to us. Of course, it’s not just the food. It’s having all of us, (or almost all of us depending on the Sunday), back in one place.