I spent almost all of my life being a shitty cook. I could barely put a bowl of cereal together. It's weird because my dad was a great cook. So was his father before him, so it's not like it skips a generation. I can't tell you how many kitchens I've set on fire because I was a lousy cook. Scratch that, I can tell you the exact number: four.
For the longest time I thought I just didn't have it in me. Like building things or writing what my mom called "nice stories." "Do you have to write about death all the time? Why can't you write something nice?" But as I grew older I thought maybe there was a psychological block in my head somewhere. I loved my dad, but we had a few issues over the years, and I didn't want to follow in his footsteps. So maybe that was it.
A friend of mine agreed, and he offered to teach me how to make my favorite food ever: cheeseburgers. And now I make some damn fine burgers. With the cheese on top of the patty, goddammit. On top, like it's supposed to be, Randers.
I figured if I could make a cheeseburger breakthrough, maybe if I put my mind to it I can teach myself how to cook. Now that I think about it, I'm sure I've talked about this before. That's the thing about doing 800+ columns. It's hard to remember every single thing you've written about.
But I'm going into something specific here. While I was on sick leave, during a day where I felt pretty decent, I decided to make a full breakfast. Eggs, toast, bacon, hash browns. Except I have no fucking clue how to make hash browns.
But the second to last time I went out to Vegas to visit Dad, he showed me an alternate way to make them: mash up a bunch of tater tots. So that's what I did. Granted, I was using memories that were a few years old and experienced originally through an alcohol haze, but by the time I was done and eating I couldn't help but think, goddam, these hash browns are really fucking good.
I realized in that moment that Dad was living through me. He was alive again for however long it took me to make those hash browns and eat them. It was a good feeling. I may even have lamely said hi to him, but I can't be certain, especially not in such a public forum. My eyes might have been a little wet, too. It was probably caused by dust.
I rode high on that good feeling until later that night when I realized, no, Dad lived through me because I'm his flesh and blood continued. He lives through my brother, Frank, and my sister Rachael. But more to the point, I'm an uncle now. (If you can imagine that horror. And yes, I've decided that if called upon to perform uncle-type duties, I will model myself after Gary Busey in Silver Bullet, as God intended.) Dad lives on through li'l baby Jameson.
Sometimes I think that's the point of life, to keep the ball rolling. I kinda blew that one, as I have no children. I sometimes joke that I don't think I have kids, but I'm 99% certain I don't. I'm very careful when it comes to that kind of thing. But to keep the chain of humanity going ever onward, ever evolving, for as long as we can? That seems to be something we're good at.
Then again, sometimes I think the point of life is having a really good breakfast, and that day I dined like a king.
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