A few hours after my father died, the owner of our local deli called and said he was putting a hold on the orders that were coming in. I grew up in a beach town. The winter population is small, with only a few restaurants remaining open.
Everyone knows everyone.
Everyone knew my father.
Everyone was calling the same deli.
So by 11AM that Tuesday morning as we worked through multiple already delivered sandwich platters, the owner of the deli said, “I’m telling people that your family can’t handle anymore hoagies. We’ll credit you for the hoagies you can’t use now. The hoagies will be here when you need them.”
My father lived almost exactly one year past the date of his cancer diagnosis, pancreatic, one of the deadliest. When we received the news, things changed quickly.
Chemotherapy started immediately. I knew enough to know that it made people sick. I wondered how my dad’s appetite would be affected. Would he retain any sense of taste? Would we eat the same things? Follow the same culinary traditions? We had so many. So much of our time together centered on food, which centered our family overall. How would we as a family continue to enjoy food if he couldn’t?
He lost his taste for alcohol first. His drink was Kettle One on the rocks, no fruit. My dad was the owner and broker of a real estate agency, and worked seven days a week for years. He’d come home, change his clothes and make a drink. Then he’d sit with my mom and her red wine and talk. In the summer they’d sit on the back patio overlooking the pool in our backyard. It was as serene as it gets. Whenever my sisters and I were home we’d join them. Eventually my mom would sneak inside and come out with an appetizer. Later she’d cook dinner—sausage and chicken, fillets of beef with shades of pink middles cooked perfectly on the grill. We’d have sides of broccoli and macaroni, zucchini with breadcrumbs, tomatoes topped with fresh mozzarella, drizzled with olive oil and garnished with basil from her garden. And corn on the cob, which without fail, after tasting its sweetness, my dad would always ask, “Is this Jersey corn?”
My dad never complained about food. In my parents’ years together, my mom avoided the handful of things he wasn’t crazy about. No sweet with his savory. No orange chickens, pineapple salsas, or cranberry chutneys. No breakfast for dinner. But other than a handful of aversions, my mom said in 45 years of marriage there wasn’t one time when he asked what was for dinner and, after she told him, he wouldn’t say, in his truly upbeat nature, “Mmmm, that sounds good.”
But the thing is, my dad never complained about anything—ever. So when he got sick he adapted to his new flavor and texture obstacles with the same level of positivity that he did everything with. So while the vodka was shelved for the time being, one night he asked my sister to make him a mocktail. After a good laugh about his use of the word, my sister filled a glass with ice, added some Fresca, maraschino cherry juice, seltzer and voila! He had found a way to enjoy a drink in the way he could at the time.
Whenever my family was home together my dad would inevitably at some point say, “What do you think? Should we get something to eat?” The answer was always yes.
After my father died, I didn’t expect how viscerally my grief over his loss would connect to food. Everything about food reminds me of my dad.
After work one night in the fall, I called my usual Chinese restaurant and ordered Shrimp Hunan. Back in my apartment, I ate it and cried the whole time. I had never ordered shrimp Hunan and didn’t even know what it was. But it was my dad’s go-to and without fully recognizing it in the moment, I needed to be close to him that night. As it turns out, Shrimp Hunan is delicious; I order it often now.
Towards the end, when my dad was really sick, Swedish Fish and cream puffs ruled. It’s literally all he could stomach. I’ll never look at Swedish Fish the same way again. I get the wind knocked out of me every time I see them. I have literal contempt for that candy. But, cream puffs, not so much. They make me feel comforted and reflective. When I pass them in the freezer aisle, I smile. There is no pattern. I have embraced these inexplicable prides and prejudices towards foods as a side effect of grief.
Seasonal reminders are the most difficult as they starkly mark another one without him. Summer is the worst; that was my dad’s season. Oysters and clams on the half-shell with red-wine vinegar, snow cones and water ice, fried seafood platters, soft-shell crabs. Usually once a summer, my dad would come home with several crabs. We’d spread newspapers and he’d re-show me how to crack the crab to get the meatiest bites from their old-bay riddled bodies. Always selfless, he offered up the biggest claws. Crab takes forever to eat. Time well spent, I think. And after what seemed like hours, the crab is done and we’d need something more substantial to eat, because if you’ve ever eaten crab you know they’re not even close to filling.
My dad was a wildcard when it came to ordering at restaurants. He’d look at the menu and say, “The cheesesteak looks good.” When the waiter came he’d say, “I’ll have the salmon and broccoli.” It happened all the time, and I always got such a kick out it. The taste trajectory of how he got from the cheesesteak to the salmon was a mystery.
In 40 years I never ate Mexican food with my dad.
In 40 years I never went out to breakfast with my dad, only lunch and dinner.
In 40 years I never paid for a meal when my dad was present.
My father’s favorite meal growing up was fried bologna sandwiches with mayo on pure white bread. He didn’t like chocolate, but loved popcorn, and for many years Good and Plenty and Juju Fruit candy. The noise of the candy shaking in the box as he opened it to pour some in his palm is a sound I can hear as clearly as if he were next to me.
These memories are cutting, but I crave them.
Food sustains us. It’s a biological fact. We can’t avoid it. We need it to live. I’ve recognized in this year of grief that these memories of my dad connected to food, even the painful ones, are sustaining me.
I don’t want to dodge triggers and avoid memories. I want to gorge on them. These memories are saving me.
The last meal I ever ate with my dad was breaded chicken cutlets, clams and rice, and a Hello Kitty Ice Cream Cake. It was the eve of my 40th birthday. He was weak. We ate in the TV room. We were never allowed to eat in the TV room. My dad had a decent appetite that night and was loving the clams and rice. Those small doses of joy were everything. Those were the days we couldn’t breathe. Afterwards, my mom brought the cake out and my family sang to me. My dad ate some cake. He went to bed soon after. I gave him a kiss on the cheek and told him I’d see him next week.
I’m so grateful for that dinner.
Breaded chicken cutlets are my favorite.
Clams and rice is my favorite.
Ice cream cake is my favorite.
Reminders everywhere keep my dad fresh in mind. They hit me when I see the string of cheese reach from the crock to the spoon in French onion soup. They hit me when I walk through the West Village and see how many restaurants serve grilled octopus. With more time, we would have tried them all.
I think a lot about the fact that there were too many hoagies. Even measured in sandwiches that’s a lot of love. We never needed more hoagies. Instead, the deli made us sticky buns to serve at the luncheon after my dad’s funeral. This culinary gesture, seemingly small, was not. It was touching and indicative of everything that makes me proud to be a product of a small town.
My mother asked me to order a decal to put above our kitchen nook, the nook where we spent years together eating and laughing. She wants the decal to read, “Should we get something to eat?”
I miss hearing that question from my dad. It’s shockingly different without him. But, we continue to eat, and as a family we continue to ask the question to each other—often; it’s important. The answer is still always yes.
Leah Iannone is The Inquisitive Eater's Poet of the Month for February 2018.
Leah Iannone received her MFA from The New School’s Creative Writing Program. She currently works as a director of academic planning. Her work has appeared in Newsweek, 12th Street, The Best American Poetry Blog, Alimentum, Redheaded Stepchild, PAX Americana, Barrow Street, Psychic Meatloaf, and The Inquisitive Eater.
Featured image via Good Free Photos.
Darren Lyons is currently earning his MFA in poetry at the The New School. His work has been featured in Chronogram, Stonesthrow Review, and on The Best American Poetry Blog.
Timothy Prolific Veit Jones a poet, educator, and organizer whose creative work operates in the continuum of the Black Arts Movement, using a multi-disciplinary approach rooted in Hip-Hop culture as an African Diasporic folkloric praxis. He has performed his poetry at a diverse variety of venues, from Cornell University to Rikers Island to STooPS in Bed-Stuy. He has been published in African Voices, 12th Street, the graphic novel Gunplay, the Penmanship Book anthology 30/30 Vol. 2, The Ferguson Moment, and YRB Magazine. Through his former publishing company, Andre Maurice Press/Indelible Books, he edited and released Blackout Arts Collective’s One Mic: A Lyrics on Lockdown Anthology and Peuo Tuy’s Khmer Girl. Tim was a Riggio Fellow at The New School, and is a fellow at The Watering Hole. He is the author of Musaic: 40 Days, 40 Nights and the forthcoming ethnographic book of poetry titled Water + Blood. Timothy is the Visioning Partner (VP) for Institutional Culture at PURPOSE Productions, teaches Kuumba/Integrated Arts at Ember Charter Schools, and is the co-founder of the Rebel Waters publishing and performance collaborative. He is from Uniondale (Long Island), and lives in Bed-Stuy.
