2019 Friday — My Pops

When Pops married my mom, he had never been married. Mom had two little daughters and I was the youngest, so Mom & Pops were instantly more than a couple; they were a family. I think I was 6 years old. Back then, I thought he married us. I guess in a sense he did. He moved into our little two bedroom home on Sylvanwood Street and we became a blended family (and that was before the term was popular). They soon expanded our little house by adding a new living-room and making the old one into the new master bedroom. About 15 months later my little brother was born. Pops created a good life for us. Numerous times I've written about him and all that he contributed to my life. Something I will always be grateful for is that as my mom divorced Pops when I was a young married wife and expecting my second child, Pops did not divorce me. I was his daughter and he was my dad and nothing divided us.

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Several years ago I sent Pops this personal story for his birthday. I called it “Food for Thought for ‘Pops’ as YOU Celebrate this Birthday.”

It is decades ago, I'm 6 years old. Everything in my life is lopsided because my home is missing a parent. To my friends, I can't explain why; it's just a lopsided, half-empty house. Life produces more confusion than confidence. I live in a fog storm; I have since I was old enough to remember. Then through the mist, out of the fog, you appear. You are bigger than the storm. You blot it out.

You bring energy to our home that I had never known. You also bring enthusiasm, anticipation, and hope. You become my "Pops"!

The kitchen soon swirls with activity. Mornings, mid-day, evenings -- there are recipes for all times of the day. You transform morning eggs into "over-easy" "poached" "scrambled." I learn about yolks breaking and bacon popping. Sometimes you make magic with leftover mashed potatoes as you pat them into cakes, salt and then grill them crispy on each side in the frying pan. Ever-so-often "French toast" is on my plate with soft white powder for sweetness. Weekdays, I leave for school nourished.

In late summer, with the bounty of the backyard's vegetable garden, I watch the kitchen become a cannery as tomatoes and beans and green leafy things are harvested, stewed, and canned. When the trees grow heavy with fruit, Mason jars are filled with wondrous colors of jams or jellies or sauces for future desserts. I hear "oohs" and "aahs" and smacking of lips.

In seasons of holidays the kitchen becomes an armory of aromas. A turkey is roasted and occasionally a large leg of lamb is baked and served with mint jelly on my plate.

Summer brings special things to broil. Sauces sizzle on the barbecue making smoke into sweet savory incense -- mouths water, fingers coat with sauce, and juice seeps under fingernails for tasting later; corners of every mouth reveal the evidence of grilled ribs.

Sometimes through the mysterious mixture of rock salt and crushed ice, thick ivory cream laced with peppermint extract, or whatever you fancy, magically turns into solid freezing dessert as the cranked handle rotates the shiny cylinder while arms grow numb.

You brought many things into my life, and food was certainly not the least of them. You thought of it as nourishment, as necessity. Food was one element of love that you used to season my life. You spelled "love" distinctly and uniquely with an "F."

Now I think of all that food with nostalgia because you filled my belly, my being, my life with a love that nourished more than my muscles, my sinew, my bones. You nourished my life and built a monument of memories because of all those meals.

Now I stir 26 alphabet letters into a soufflé to celebrate YOU - the best step-dad that anyone has. You are my "Pops." Happy Birthday to YOU! Written with LOVE by your well-fed daughter.

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Pops made my world a better place. Today he’s been in Heaven for a year.

Rosie (& Mr. Fun), aka Carol