A Fancy Ham and Cheese: Cooking for My Father

A baby is born with a need to be loved - and never outgrows it. -Frank A. Clark 

My father is a meat and potatoes kind of guy. A Midwestern outdoors man and unapologetic story- teller. He boasts an impeccable work ethic, carries deep devotion in his heart, and plays the role of generous host when he can and when it's most needed.

At times I've assumed he could subsist on venison chops, flake mashed potatoes and canned corn for unimaginable stretches of time. That's not to say he doesn't love food or variety in his food. He, after all, was the first person to introduce me to the simple pleasure of eating foods you love with people you adore. Some of my fondest childhood food memories include snacks with Dad. Popcorn with American cheese singles lining the bowl. Buttery crackers and oily sardines. Braunschweiger sandwiches. Port wine cheese spread.




My father's work schedule had him home before my mother most nights, so he was the one who made dinner. Casseroles of meat, vedge and creamed soup.  Our staple proteins were always wild game. It took me a long time to appreciate the fact that I was eating goose, rabbit, venison and in some years more exotic things like bear, moose and wild boar. I remember the first time I ordered venison at a restaurant in Arlington, Texas and the oddity of it was not lost on me. I just kept looking at the price and shaking my head remembering the portions of venison I was offered as a child for the price of a DNR issued license, ammunition and my father's commune with nature at dawn.

I hopscotched from childhood to adulthood and,  in a tale as old as time, began to grow away from the tastes, preferences and priorities of my parents*. My Dad once commented he knew my sister  and I would be 'classier' than he was. I always assumed he meant that with a sense of pride. She and I would have opportunities beyond the former generation that would allow us to be our own, wholly new owners of the world. In my case the opportunities, the privileges, have led me to a passion, and love of haute cuisine.

As I learned and experimented in the kitchen, I built a host of new insecurities as chefs often do. My food is my expression of love, how I show love, so like in all budding relationships, and with all good vulnerabilities, I was opened to, and sensitive to, rejection. Following the common trope, no one's opinion means more to me than my father's. A reality he seems surprised by. Cooking for my father is like holding my breath.

~*~

In all things, my Dad approaches life with humor, so when I made him Croque Madame for the first time it was no surprise it became a story we repeat to ourselves over whiskey pours and games of cards. But, since this tale has become taller the more often it's repeated and recreated, the audience will excuse any inaccuracies or additions. Story telling is like the evolution of a recipe. We add and subtract along the way to suit. Sensationalism and phenomenalism to taste.

Early in my foodie journey, and after falling in love with Paris and French food, I was excited to have mastered the pivotal mother sauce, bechamel and the quintessential, Croque Madame. I had eaten them on a cheery May morning in the Place du Tertre in the 18th arrondissement, sipping coffee surrounded by artwork in the sun. Croque Madames defined a moment in time I sigh about to this day.  This was my way to bring a taste of  France to central Wisconsin.

I sourced my ingredients, timelined the meal prep in my mind and set about offering to make breakfast for the group of family and friends gathered at the lake house one sunny summer Saturday. It was a production. Electric griddle, scattered pans, warm, creamy sauce, breadcrumbs and heat. My timeline stretched beyond my estimate and by the time sandwiches were hitting the table I was being watched by six sets of hungry, expectant eyes. My partner in crime helped with the eggs and eventually we all sat down to eat. I explained the dish using a flourish of French terms; "Je présente Croque Madame!" Beaming and nervous I scanned the diners. My father was looking at me with a quizzical look, "But what is it?" he asked. I paused then blurted out, "I guess it's a fancy ham and cheese with white gravy." He nodded with a smile and with that my father had brought the central Wisconsin to my France.

And that's how it goes. I try my hand at ever evolving and more complicated dishes, accompanying them with ever evolving and more complicated terms, and when we sit down to dine, my father and I take turns defining and explaining. It's how we talk the language of food with each other. A shared language of love. A shared experience told from two sides. Each in our own way. It's one of my favorite things. Something I cherish.

There's a part of me that will always worry about the opinions of others, especially, but not exclusively, when it comes to what I cook. Some might argue with postered platitudes that that's a flaw to correct. I think I'll need a lot more growing up to get there, assuming I ever do. But one thing is certain no matter how much growing up I do, I will always love cooking for my Dad, or better, with my Dad. I'll savor the opportunities I can, when I can, while I can, to make him a fancy ham and cheese or even venaison, puree de pomme de terre et maïs. 

Venison steak with blue cheese pan sauce

*And in the eternally pulsing loop I feel myself starting to lean back towards those very tastes, preferences and priorities, as I begin to understand my parents as their own people with lengths of existence, and contribution, outside of my involvement. But that's for another time...