Oh, My Papa
A Corny-as-Kansas-in-August Salute to Dad
There is a quote that frequently runs through my mind and always reminds me of my father. It’s from one of my favorite Shakespeare plays — don’t worry, not a tragedy: Twelfth Night, not the first of the Bard’s works that I read, but the first I liked.
“If music be the food of love,” cries Duke Orsino, “play on. Give me excess of it that surfeiting, the appetite may sicken and so die.”
If Willie had modeled Orsino after Dad, that passage would have gone slightly differently. “If food be the food of love,” James Druckman would posit, “feed on. Give me excess of it.” It would end there. He wouldn’t want his appetite for love or food to die, and I think no amount of eating could ever staunch either. Food, you see, is my father’s way of expressing love — for people, and for life.
It’s probably no coincidence that Orsino’s declaration works as well for me as it does for my father. Asked what moves me most and brings me the greatest joy, friends and family aside, my answers would be food and music. If you then asked me where I think those passions come from, I would tell you, “My dad.”
Before I was old enough to truly appreciate food, Dad had me singing. One of my earliest memories is of being taken to visit his grandparents when I was around three years old. He had me perform a solo of “Hello Dolly” for them. We’d practiced. I knew every word and note. I have an even earlier memory of being in my crib and hearing the Sondheim song “A Weekend In the Country,” from his musical A Little Night Music. Dad sang along, but always trailed off after the refrain because the lyrics flew so fast. It’s one of few Sondheim songs he likes. My father has been known to decry that composer’s body of work as an endless series of monotone melodies that all sound alike. Rodgers and Hart, followed by Hammerstein, are more Dad’s speed.
To this day, random snippets of songs from Oklahoma! or The King and I will pop into my head without a warning. One of our best father-daughter bits was a rendition of the Showboat tune “Goodbye, My Lady Love.” It was how he’d tuck me in. Once I was snug-as-a-bug in bed, stuffed animals in place, he’d kiss me goodnight and, as he’d turn to leave, start in with, “And so, I’m going away, because my heart has gone astray.” That was my cue. “But, you promised me, that someday you’d come back to me.”
This took us to the chorus, which we’d sing in tandem. From there, I kept on going. Dad created a little diva monster. I sang non-stop, and I liked to belt. When I was angry at my parents or thought I’d been treated unfairly, I would retire to my room and push out the lyrics to “It’s a Hard Knock Life,” backed up by my original cast recording, which I played, at full volume, on my turntable. I had big dreams of being on the Broadway stage, and for a very short while, I was that kid who always got the lead in camp or school musicals.
Even after I developed stage fright, I kept singing to myself, and now to my dog. I sing when I’m having a hard time focusing, when I can’t find the lede for an article I’m writing, when I’m procrastinating, or feeling angsty or blue. Showtunes aren’t really my thing anymore, but, now and then, I’ll feel a second act ballad coming on.
When did my food love kick in? I’m not entirely sure, and Dad isn’t either. I can tell you that at the end of kindergarten I asked my parents if they would please bring me to a Japanese restaurant. We had studied Japan in school and this culminated in an afternoon tea party, where, dressed in homemade kimonos, we ate maki rolls and rice crackers. I wanted more. The following year, I was the only brat in the first grade who, for her birthday party, demanded and served a cake layered with coffee ice cream and a thick paste of pralinated hazelnut. It was from Mrs. Grossinger’s bakery on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, and could also be found on the dessert menu at haute spots like the legendary Café Des Artistes. Needless to say, it was not the Carvel number my peers were hoping for.
While my relationship with music started out with a bang and went strong for a long time before finding a quieter place to dwell, my food obsession was a slow burn. I grew up with it, literally. As a teenager, I devoured the New York Times’s dining section, couldn’t wait to get my hot hands on my mom’s issue of Gourmet, and thought constantly about what she might be making for Saturday night dinner or where we’d go for Sunday supper. Ultimately, my voracious curiosity about food helped me find my voice as a writer. Before that, it was what constantly gnawed away at me while I endured in seventh grade English class (as we read Julius Cesar, which constituted my first Shakespearean encounter), studied for exams at college, researched Modern art in grad school, or filed stories about interior design and entertaining at Food & Wine magazine. I remained preoccupied with the following question: What will you have for lunch?
This too, came from Dad.
If he tells me to taste something, I do so, without hesitation — have for years. It might be a spoonful of coffee ice cream drenched in hot butterscotch sauce; a choice nugget from the crispy crust of rendered fat that forms around my mother’s just-out-of-the-oven roast beef; or the crunchiest, golden-brown, nearly-burnt cottage fry in the bowl at our regular burger haunt. And as much as there’s always pleasure to be taken in the tasting, it’s seeing that joy on his face as he watches you discover the greatness he already knew existed that makes it worth the glutinous ride.
The delight in the bite, in the discovery, and in someone else’s experience of those things is what initially drove me to write about food professionally. That, and a love of words. I didn’t opt to cook for a living; I chose to take up pen and ink (or keyboard and blue screen).
Here, too, Dad plays a role. I spoke my first word with him. It was button. I was crawling on his tummy at the beach and playing with the button on his polo shirt. He kept saying, “button,” and at some point, I repeated it.
So, my great loves — food, music, and words — were given to me, in one way or another, by my first greatest love, my father.
I will never be able to heave my heart into my mouth or onto a typed page. I can only say: Thanks, I love you, you are wonderful, and where’s dinner?
Happy Father’s Day, JPD.
