Father's Days

Today, in honor of Father's Day, The MQR takes a look at a life lived habitually. No one celebrated mediocrity like my father. This is not to say that he didn't overcome great odds to enjoy his moderately paced life in Cleveland with my mother. My father relished in the predictable and stable and found solace in the expected.

Breakfast/Mornings
Dad was definitely a morning person. Sleeping in was for losers and anyone who slept past 6:00 am was a freak.

Dad liked to enjoy his warm breakfast cereals (cream of wheat or oatmeal) heavy on the milk (so it's less thick) and inside the pot in which it was prepared. If he ate cold cereal, it was Kellogg's Corn Flakes and it was consumed with 2% milk (skim was for crazies) and a banana (strawberries in cereal was for white people).

It was also customary to enjoy a quality hot beverage such as Sanka or Folgers with sharp block cheddar cheese at the bottom of the cup. It's not weird, it's cultural (and yummy!). Dad was not a big toast person unless prepared special by my mother. When my mother prepared his breakfast it contained more spice and variety with things like link sausage or sausage from the West Side Market and was never served in the tool that was used to cook it. My Dad prepared bacon on the less crispy side and was quite content, actually, with a simple fried egg served with white rice. Again, not weird, just cultural.

My Dad also abhorred bright kitchen lights, so you could find him in the kitchen early mornings with just one light on above the sink, making the kitchen appear rather blue. In the summer, my father enjoyed the simplicity of sunlight.

Sometimes, a pastry wiggled it's way into my father's menu and was enjoyed with gusto with above mentioned coffee and cheese. The pastry was usually some sort of Entenmann's coffee cake or danish. An occasional cake or glaze doughnut was welcomed at the table.

In addition to cheesed coffee, my father enjoyed orange juice (prepared from frozen concentrate - preferably Tropicana). So much so, that my diabetic mother often found herself without her quick remedy for her sudden insulin reactions. This usually resulted in household argument about taking the last of something and not at least making preparations for a replacement.

On special days, usually Sundays, my mother would prepare fried plantain chips called tostones, which she served with some sort of garlic butter sauce. My father enjoyed these with his breakfast and would come back throughout the morning for seconds, thirds and fourths.

My father expected to watch the morning news - in peace - so talking about the goings on in my cereal bowl was not appreciated, welcomed or allowed. (I suppose if my father could read, he would have liked to read the newspaper in silence.) My dad especially looked forward to the weather report, because he always knew more than the pouffy-haired American Meteorology Association certified weather guy and had no qualms saying so every morning to my mother. She always had to remind him that Midwest weather is not as predictable as Puerto Rico where cold is anything below 80 degrees and the seasons are divided up between hurricane and non-hurricane season. This usually led to some friendly disagreement about the merits of America and why Puerto Rico is the best place on Earth.

Lunchtime/Weekends
When lunch was not prepared by my mother, my father relied on cold cuts and deli wieners to make a wholesome lunch. This was usually served with italian bread slices. Other breads were weird.Sandwiches were made using one slice of bread and a couple of slices of meat and the bread was folded over in some perverted version of a taco. He liked pop with his midday meal. Because my mom could only drink diet pops, he grew accustomed to sugar-free beverages or occasionally enjoyed a glass of soda pop from such high quality national brands such as Faygo or Fanta.

Blowing one's nose was customary after completing the meal. Midday meals were enjoyed while watching CBS soap operas.

Weekends meant things that needed to be done around the house. But not like what you see on Home Depot commercials. This meant the complete opposite of Bob Vila projects. And usually resulted in my mother begging to call a professional and my father storming out the house to return something to Sears. Occasionally, I was invited to come along; not so much for the chance to spend quality time with his youngest offspring, but more so for my exceptional literacy and English-translation skills. This was sometimes rewarded with a trip to McDonald's or Burger King.

Evenings
See "Breakfast/Mornings" for television preferences. Dinner was almost always prepared by mother and my father got served first and with the most food. Rice was consumed with a banana. Not weird, customary. You would be grossed out amazed by what sort of Caribbean/American Soul Food combinations my father created. Things such as beef neck bones with habichuela was a common favorite.

My father's analysis of the day's news and events, including things that happened at the job site, generally centered around other people's sheer stupidity and his uncanny ability to always be right. There was usually some speech to me about my under/over eating habits and why I should appreciate growing up here versus when and where he grew up. When he didn't eat at the dinner table, he ate in the living room alone. Usually because he was pissed and after awhile he hated eating in the kitchen with me and my mom because we talked too much during the news.

Dessert varied, but his favorite was chocolate pudding served with Cool Whip. It was common practice for him to eat the largest serving, while I laid claim to the mixing bowl. My mother usually opted out.

Dishes were washed in this order:

1. Dad finishes meal first. Blows nose.
2. Rinses dish. Begins to exit kitchen.
3. Mom grows annoyed.
4. Dad comes back to begin washing dishes.
5. Stove cleared.
6. Mom in charge of leftover distribution to pets and storage.
7. Dad washes dishes.
8. Stove is cleaned last.
9. Dishes are put away.
10. Sink emptied of water.
11. I'm put in charge of silverware drying and storage.
12. Dad exits kitchen.
13. Mom looks over dishes that Dad cleans.
14. Complains.
15. Mom re-washes unacceptable dishes.
16. Dad returns for dessert.

My parents married in the month of May. I was born in the month of January. My father died in the month of November. The initials of our first names spell JAM in order for father, mother, daughter.

Just so you know.

Every Father's Day, my mother and I would agonize over a gift which my Dad usually could care less about as long as he got more or as much fanfare as Mom did on Mother's Day. He would sometimes cook BBQ in honor of himself. There was usually some sort of greeting card involved, which I had to read to him. My mother would insist that he keep the card and store it where he kept all the other cards he couldn't read. He would thank me for the card and dismiss me out of the room. I would sometimes catch him holding the card and looking at it as if he could read it all by himself when he thought no one was looking. One time I could swear he was crying.