Bits and Pieces

My father's specialty was Lipton soup in the morning and once in a great while, little chicken wings and drumsticks that he'd fry in an inch of oil, black pepper, and salt all over their slick surfaces. When they were done, he'd squirt a mustard garnish on it all.

In the mornings I'd awaken to his whistling across the house, the kitchen his temporary domain, as he packed his black lunchbox and made me a hot breakfast. He called me from the kitchen and served me a mug of Lipton soup, chicken noodle, the little white packet on the counter, breathing the last bits of yellow powder onto the formica. Hot soup, steamy and a little rich, salty, with shreds of noodles I liked to lap up and force my spoon to dig at the bottom of the mug for more.

I had only seen him make the tiny chicken legs a few times. They seemed to come in the wake of an argument with my mother, and only on Saturdays or Sundays. He was not drunk when he cooked. He did it without talking and with a curious concentration I never usually saw in him. My mouth watered for what spattered and hissed in the pan. In the end, I think I got one, maybe two of the tiny drumsticks. My father with his unusual appetites ate the rest. No one but me remembers the time he reached into the refrigerator and ate from a stick of butter. I wonder now, what must a body be craving to move someone to eat from a stick of butter? Fat? Oil? Sweetness? The comfort, the need to be overwhelmed with the taste of something missed?

My father had big appetites (does, I should say). He wanted steaks, pork chops, potatoes. He required full plates. He packed in his lunchbox entire cardboard salt-shaker you could buy in a store. He never seemed interested in fast food--I recall him eating what was made available, but never him taking us to a drive-through joint, unless my mother was directing.

He did, and does, eat the random vegetable. I recall small plates of radishes, salted. He liked salted tomato and his hand dove into packages of sunflower seeds. He deposited the shells of these seeds in the backyard or on the cement of Dodger Stadium. I found sunflower seeds tedious if I had to break open their shells myself. Too much work, too little payoff.

Once, I planned a picnic with my first boyfriend. I stood over a pan full of oil with small chicken drumsticks drowning in the cauldron of yellow hiss and bubble. I peppered the flesh and turned them and tried to avoid as much oil splatter as I could. This was after my father had moved out, my mother and I were home alone together, and she stayed drunk as often as possible--me in the throes of adolescence, she menopausal. I packed up the chicken in tin foil and took it to Chatsworth Park in a wicker basket. My boyfriend and I smoked pot and gnawed on the chicken, sucking juices, licking fingers.

Comments

[Loretta]

A piquant food memoir. So many of my memories are tied up in bites of this and that. Just last night my sisters and I were remembering strange foods of our childhood and doubled over in laughtet. My mom used to buy powdered milk and split the whole milk with it to save money. Imagine pouring that over your Cheerios!

[Suzette]

"The need to be overwhelmed with the taste of something missed..." I think that's it. How else to account for the deliberate action of cramming yourself to the point of discomfort, or eating bizarre food combinations? Very insightful.