Everyone’s got things they like to eat and things they’d rather not share a planet with. For instance, I love lasagna*/** and loathe turnips.
How do you eat your French toast? Butter and syrup, right? Maybe some whipped cream and berries, yeah? Not Dad. No, he’d butter it, add salt and pepper, and then slice it up and dip the pieces in strawberry jam.
I asked him once why he ate it that way. “When I was up North,” he told me, “I’d never had French toast before. Someone told me it was like scrambled eggs mixed into toast. So I reasoned that you put butter and jam on toast, and salt and pepper on eggs.”
Try it. It’s delicious. (Raspberry jam is also a great choice.)
Dad hated yogurt. Hated it. For years I wouldn’t eat it, because I assumed he was right. (He told me once that it looked, and I quote, “like the end product of a sick horse.” But he enjoyed cottage cheese. Go figure.)
Also he refused to eat kiwis. “I’m not putting something in my mouth that’s that shade of green.” I used to really enjoy eating them right beside him. I’d even exaggerate the smacking sounds that are pretty much de rigeur when you eat kiwi.
(Hmmm. Reading this back, it appears I might be a terrible son. Oh well. Je ne regrette rien.)
* I don’t much care for Mondays, either. Maybe I’m Garfield.
** Also, Dad taught me how to make lasagna Florentine, which is the best. Maybe I’ll make some this week.
My dad passed away recently. I’m going to be posting little memories of him for the next little while. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.