2025 Sunday — Pops Birthday

For most people, today, February 2, is "ground-hog day," but for me, it is my Pops' birthday. I think he would be 100 today; he’s been in Heaven for almost 7 years. Pops had an immense influence on my life. When I was a youngster, he became my stepdad. I'll forever be grateful for the way he cared, provided, and loved me through all the years of my life, especially my teenage rebellious years. Even though after I was grown and married, my mom did not stay married to him, I'm so grateful for a stepdad who raised me like I was his own. He was the best dad ever.
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Several years ago I wrote this essay for Pops and mailed it inside his birthday card. I titled it:

Food for Thought for My “Pops” as YOU Celebrate this Birthday:

It is 1955, I’m a half dozen 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 wonderous 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.

It’s now many decades later, I’m no longer six. 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 stepdad that anyone has ever had. You are my “Pops.”

With LOVE from your well-fed daughter, Happy Birthday to YOU!
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Rosie (& Mr. Fun), aka Carol
and Chloe & Mitzi too!