Day 383

When my son was little — four or five — I was telling him about my grandfather (my mother’s father) and I told him that Poppy was the best cook. My son got mad. He wrinkled his brow and scolded me, “You’re wrong, my grandfather is the best cook.” I countered, “Nope, my grandfather definitely cooked better.” And for a good five minutes, we went back and forth arguing as to whose grandfather was the best cook. At the time, my grandfather had been dead for twenty-five years, but my father was very much alive. Thinking back on that debate today made me sad, because now my son’s grandfather is also dead. 

I loved my dad, but I’m objective enough to still claim that my grandfather’s cooking was without a doubt better. To this day, I do not like going out to eat at Italian restaurants because the food is always disappointing. I’ve never eaten Italian food — the exception being when I was in Italy — that could compare to my grandfather’s cooking. I still miss it. But my son is also right. When it comes to breakfast food, my Dad was the best. His egg sandwiches were delicious. I refuse to eat waffles anywhere but home because no one ever makes them as good as Daddy did. And then there’s the crumb cake — which is entirely what my son was basing his judgement on all those years ago. 

Today (our first day of spring break) in memory of our grandfathers, we baked. First, the three of us — Mom, my son, and I — made pizza rustica in remembrance of my grandfather. He used to make it during lent — though earlier in the season and I have vague memories of him bringing it over to house. It’s one of my favorite dishes. And whenever I eat it, I think of him, and miss the smell of his kitchen. My son had fun rolling out the dough, though the dough was not cooperative. It kept pulling apart until we gave up and patched it together on the pie. It may not have looked pretty, but it tastes amazing.

After we put the pizza in the oven, we left it with Mom and my son and I went to the beach for a short walk. It was windy, cold, and raw and even though we bundled up, it didn’t take long before our fingers were frozen. Usually it rains on Good Friday, but not this year. However, the sky was gray and it felt rather dreary, but that may have been more my mood than the weather.

Back at home, my son and I made a crumb cake in remembrance of my son’s grandfather. Last year, when Dad should have been home making the cake for us, he lay dying in a hospital. But my son enjoys continuing the tradition of crumb cake for the holidays. Maybe someday, the cake and the memories will make me smile. Now, I’m just an emotional mess. 

Speaking of crumb cake, an essay of mine titled “Crumb Cake” will be published later this spring in a British zine. The essay — as all my writing lately — is a tribute to Dad. After accepting it, the publisher asked me to participate in an online live launch of the issue. I’m looking forward to it, though I’m not quite sure I’ll be able to get through the reading without crying. 

Another piece about Dad, titled “Lent,” has also been accepted for publication by a journal that rejected a different essay last year. But considering the journal is supported by NYU — and I did graduate from there, twice — I really wanted to land an essay with them, so I submitted again. 

I’ll post the links when the issues are live. Of course, not everything gets accepted and as if to prove it, a third essay was rejected (today) by an anthology that called for the worst experiences in 2020. I have to wonder, what were they looking for? If death isn’t the worst, what is? This is the second time I’ve been rejected by calls that specifically asked for pieces addressing the horrors of last year. Maybe they were just inundated with death and got bored of it quickly.

This entire week has been challenging. Mom has been overrun with emotion. She’s been really depressed which is completely understandable. (I haven’t been much better — so no judgement there.) She has reached a point where she watches televisions all day, from the moment she wakes up until she falls asleep. I guess she is trying to keep memories at a distance. The more she watches, the less she has to think. And she’s been talking about selling the house. Her next door neighbor spoke to her a couple of days ago saying that he wanted to buy it. It would be a lovely piece of property to rent. I love this house because there are so many memories encased in the walls. He wants it for an investment. I wanted to cry. 

This was going to be an impossible holiday, but Mom making plans to sell the house is making it even harder. As if Dad dying during my favorite season wasn’t bad enough. It’s like I’m losing him again, or rather, I’m being reminded of all we have lost because he is no longer here.