Your dad tells you, again, you’re not old enough to use a knife. When you ask him how old you have to be, he says, “Hard to say.” There are still lots of ways you can help him cook, he says, but mostly he just asks you to hand him things.
On Sunday morning the first thing he wants you to bring him is a package of bacon from the refrigerator. You watch carefully as he peels the slices apart and lays them side by side in the pan. Then you have to give him one potato at a time from the bin, and again, you follow his every move as he peels them. You will need to know how when you finally get to use a knife.
When the potatoes are peeled, it’s your job to rinse them in cold water. The smell of the bacon makes your stomach grumbly and you lick your lips. You want to bite down on some and feel it crunch in your mouth—right now. You try to sneak a piece and get your hand tapped. Your dad says he wants you to give him the rinsed potatoes, one at a time. You watch him slice each one as he holds it in his hands, letting the pieces fall into the pan.
He moves your wooden stool from the sink to the stove so you can step up and see what’s in the pan. He puts his hand over yours and together you stir for a minute. Then you have to get down so the bacon juice doesn’t jump out of the pan and bite you. Your dad puts the lid on and cooks the potatoes until they’re brown. He lets you help him move them from the frying pan to a bowl. You know they’re hot, but you can’t wait. You steal a tiny bite when you think he’s not looking and pop it in your mouth. Now you have to set the table while he cracks eggs into the pan. You love Sunday mornings.
The smell of fresh coffee drags you away from that cute boy in your dream. You hear your dad call, “Who’s peeling the potatoes?” as you rub your eyes. All three of your brothers slink back into their rooms. You think about that one Sunday when nobody peeled them—there weren’t any fried potatoes that morning. You love those potatoes too much to let that happen again. But you wish someone else would step up once in a while. Still in your blue-striped pajamas, you grumble as you trudge up the stairs into the kitchen.
Your dad says, “Potatoes first, then coffee.” With a deep sigh, you lay out seven potatoes—one for each person and one for the pot. The old wood-handled paring knife is waiting for you on the counter. Your dad is busy frying the bacon, but you know he’s watching you. Sure enough, he scolds you for “wasting the potato” because you still haven’t mastered his level of see-through peelings. You say, “Sorry, Dad,” and try harder—just like you do every Sunday morning.
When you’re done, you pour a cup of coffee and ask your dad if he’s ready for a refill. He says not yet, please hand him a bowl for the potatoes and go set the table. First you filch a piece of bacon. You try not to chew right away so you don’t get caught, but he says, “I saw that.” You smile as you crunch the bacon between your teeth. You can’t wait to hear him holler, “Come and get it!” Dad’s Fried Potatoes, cooked in bacon fat and salt, golden brown, crisp on the outside, and creamy on the inside, are even better than ice cream for breakfast.
You know this Christmas will be a somber gathering, but you also know how important it is to be together with your family. You’re sure if this doesn’t happen, your mother will stop celebrating the holiday forever. You settle into your room in your brother’s new house. You spend the week helping your mother decorate, bake chocolate pixies, and wrap gifts. You keep holiday music playing in the background all day.
You’re missing your dad as you remember how he’d always insisted on being the first one to play with any new toys, and how fried potatoes had become a Christmas-only treat. The weight of his absence is crushing.
Christmas morning everyone wants to have breakfast before opening gifts. While you rummage around in the pantry, you hear your brothers say in unison, “Fried potatoes!” In the many years you helped your dad make them, you were never able to duplicate that perfect bite. You came close, they tasted great, but they weren’t Dad’s Fried Potatoes. Eventually you stopped trying. You just made damn sure to get home every year for Christmas breakfast.
Now your brothers are insistent—they refuse to accept anything but total agreement. They even offer to peel the potatoes. You cave. Your mother is silent and goes downstairs to her room. You go through the steps—fry the bacon, place the cooked bacon on a paper towel, pour off most of the fat, slice the peeled potatoes into the pan, salt, stir, cover, turn up the heat—and then watch and stir to ensure they don’t burn. The kitchen smells like your childhood and you eat a slice of crispy bacon.
When it’s time to complete the next step, the one you never got right, you feel your dad’s presence. He guides you through how much water to put in the lid and drizzle into the pan. You replace the lid as the water sizzles and releases a cloud of steam. When the potatoes achieve that perfect shade of brown, you fill four bowls and yell, “Come and get it!”
Your throat closes up as you take your first bite. These are Dad’s Fried Potatoes. Your brothers shrug at your tears and walk away with their breakfast, your mother stays in her room, and you stand crying in the kitchen, holding a bowl filled with your father’s love.
Paula Boyland writes, plays with paint, and shares her love of food in beautiful Central Virginia. She is a proofreader, the blog editor for Streetlight Magazine, and host of Virtually the Write Time. Paula lives and laughs with her husband and their three incorrigible dogs.
SPOT IMAGE CREATED BY WARINGA HUNJA
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