I remember more than a few breakfasts when I was a child. When the toast was put on the table at breakfast, my father would always choose the burnt pieces and exclaim, “I love burnt toast.” We thought he was crazy. Ah, maybe he was.
But I have had children for eighteen years now, and I have learned to love burnt toast. Often, it was the only pieces left on the plate, but there became something, well, something tasty about the crisp, blackened bread no one anymore desired.
I know one way fathers get fat. They eat whatever is left over on the children’s plate. My daughter and her friend were making smoothies, and they used only half a container of yoghurt—I ate the remainder. They made more than either wanted, and I finished what remained in the blender. I can’t ethically throw the food away, and too much of it I eat. Lately I have taken to feeding all manner of animals outside our back porch. Word has gotten out: there is a small community of crows and raccoons and rabbits growing quite chubby out back. Personally, I just can’t run any more miles in the attempt to avoid more weight.
I’ve loved being a father to my children. I can’t define why, because nothing but loving them has come easy. Perhaps this is why: the other night we were watching the television, and a commercial for a new Stouffers product came on the screen. It asked, “Who makes a really tasty, fresh Panini whenever you want?” and Anna Rose piped up cheerfully, “My dad!”
Happy father’s day to me. And to my dad whom I miss today.