I’m not sure where all he learned how to do it,
but my father was a master cook.
In fact in our house, he was THE cook.
For most of my growing up, except for Thanksgiving,
my dad was the man behind the frying pan,
the wielder of the cleaver, the slicer and dicer,
the broiler, the baker, and the casserole maker.
I say except for Thanksgiving, because my mother,
ever since she’d been old enough to stuff a turkey,
had managed that meal for her and her parents,
back in Chicago on up until I took over the job
when the years caught up with both of them.
I’m not sure where I picked up the skill,
maybe it actually is in the family genes,
but when my father began to lose his memory,
and when my mother began to have mobility issues,
I took up the frying pan and tongs and became chief chef.
It was hard watching both of them age into the inability
to do what they’d so prided themselves on for so long,
but I did step in, did what I hope was a tolerable job,
and now that they’re both gone, find I hardly ever cook anymore ever.