Scuttling sideways, standing on my toes, I peer through the kitchen window at the alley behind our house. "Did he say he was coming for sure, Daddy?"
My father looks up from the crossword puzzle in The Pittsburgh Press, nodding and licking his pencil with the tip of his tongue.
I don't remember his name now, some neighborhood friend coming to help my dad with work around the house. Fifty-two when I was born, my father slipped and fell one night on the ice, no one finding him until the morning. His artificial hip, the first of its kind in Pittsburgh, was made of titanium, but his hip always ached like a "son of a bitch." Between that wounded joint, arthritis, and emphesema, his home-repair abilities were limited. One summer, this neighbor visited almost daily, and I cooked breakfast, taking such pride in sliding shimmering sunny-side ups onto a plate.
Admittedly, I was a strange child, cooking breakfast for the workman, dreams of bacon and omelets and french toast running through my head as I drifted off to sleep. If I wasn't reading, I was cooking. My sister still delights in telling stories about me holding prayer services for our family on certain nights, me assigning seats to my atheist father, my Presbyterian mother, and my siblings whose faith emerged from that difficult match. A fleeting memory shoots across my mind: me stomping my foot and pointing while I stood behind the couch, which served as an altar.
I stopped holding mandatory prayer meetings, but I haven't stopped cooking...or reading about cooking or watching television programs about cooking.When my children were babies and their father played on two softball teams, the five of us spent Sunday afternoons watching food shows on the local PBS channel, me rocking at least one baby, the recipes offering a salve for my frazzled nerves. To this day, my grown children can be lulled into contentment by watching The Barefoot Contessa, Everyday Italian, Chopped, three of them sitting shoulder to shoulder on the couch, the other often at my feet.
You know what they say, baby...food is love. I certainly know the way to people's stomachs.When my daughter's friend Ben visited us this summer on his way from playing baseball out East to his family's almond farm in California, I blended tri-berry smoothies, folded tender goat cheese omelets, and topped grape tomatoes with balsamic glaze. This is what I do: dish up bowls of wine-laced boeuf bourguignon, spoon cornbread into my grandmother's skillet, mix lemon vinagrette with a light hand.
Sitting at the Sunday table is a good thing; we laugh a lot; we share stories, weaving ourselves back together once again. But just as we know that a skillet can conk someone on the head as easily as crisp homefries, sometimes our table witnesses tears, misunderstandings and recriminations.Why don't you join us? I can't promise what you'll find...a mom with her head in her hands or a table crowded round with extra chairs.
Last week, our Sunday table moved to Meat and Potatoes in Pittsburgh. Andy, son number two, invited us to brunch, where no one conked anyone on the head. Take a look:
Every brunch should start with monkey bread. I decided to buy an extra large muffin tin after these over-sized cupcakes arrived at our table. Think of the possibilities!
Two Sundays ate chicken and waffles (the cheddar/jalapeno variety) with bacon-and-bourbon- infused syrup. My southern-born mother made the silkiest skillet gravy to accompany her version of chicken-fried steak. My tastebuds want to pair chicken and waffles with my mama's "milk gravy" as she used to call it.
Papa Sunday chose Irish Benedict (corned beef/ swiss/ poached egg/ and Thousand Island hollandaise. One egg was so full of yolk that it burst when pricked with a fork, spraying his dark green sweater. I only mention this because I'm usually the one spotted with brunch.
Our adopted Sunday girl loved the short rib hash, contentedly boxing half of it up for another day at another table.
