There are many marks that a father leaves on the life of his child. Many. I am fortunate to have a loving and kind, hard working and brave, sweet and funny father. Really, I never call him father, that is a term I use more for my Heavenly Father, but to me, he is dad and daddy.
My dad and I have always had a good relationship. I often felt understood, even praised, by him. I knew that he loved me and that he liked having me around, even when others felt that I was somewhat bothersome. My siblings have even confided that daddy and share a special bond. There really wasn't anything that I didn't want to do with him. Chopping wood, scraping paint, mowing the grass - these were all opportunities to be with him. Of course we did special things together - making sassafras tea that we grew in our woods, swinging with underduckies at the farm, painting lessons on my homemade easel. How he honed in on my loves of creativity and art.
As I got older, we would listen to opera while I helped him cook. The Italian in us naturally came out, both of us longing to learn the language so sing along, to feel more connected. When the most beautiful song of all - Nessun Dorma via Pavarotti - would come on, we would pause. The song can bring tears to my eyes this minute. I always had this dream of taking my dad to Italy to hear Pav live, now we will have to wait for Heaven. There were other songs, dancing songs, singing songs, heart songs that I hear and can only think of those times in the kitchen with my dad. My husband really appreciates my cooking. I love my cooking. It is my expression, my creative contribution, and I have my dad to thank for bringing that out in me.
But, there is one cooking lesson that has left the greatest mark on my life. My first pie. Pies - now that is something I can rely on for a crowd pleasing time. I feel so comfortable turning that flour and fat into a crust that melts in your mouth. My hands know just when to stop the mixing, the rolling, the tucking, the pinching. I know the perfect color of gold for oven removal. But, I know most of all the warm, comforting, welcoming feeling that one bite of a homemade pie can bring to a person. Moreover, I know that a simple offering of a baked good can open a door to a life in need of love.
Our family farm, right across the street from our house, was sold to a horsemen. The new owner had a trainer and his family move into a home on the lot. This was all very different for me, a ten year old, and my dad. That land that was his playground and it now belonged to someone else. While many would become bitter, turned their back on these new residents, dad took this opportunity to love, really love.
At my parents kitchen table, the hands of a young girl and a steel worker, rolled out a pie, filled it with cherries, wove a crust-top, and baked with love. We carried a warm cherry pie to our new neighbors and made some new friends. To make a very long story short, a family in turmoil, one about to call it quits, started coming to our church, started making changes for the better, began choosing love. One family on the brink of destruction, blossomed. This family now serves God in churches in our area. I often wonder how the world would be different if my dad hadn't made that pie.
The lessons that my dad taught are numerous, too many to count. And, the good news is that the lessons go on. My daughters will bake pies and they will know Pavarotti. More importantly that will know that an extended hand, an offering, to a person in need makes a mark for good. Thank you, dad.
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