Thankful

I knew before I knew, if you know what I mean. My father began to look old.  His eyes were beginning to to sink and his skin was beginning to hang loosely from his bones. He looked grey and sick. "I have cancer." He told us matter-of- factly, late in the winter of 2006 . He discovered a growth on his head and he went to the doctor to have it looked at. Concerned, the doctor ran some tests. A short time later, the test results were returned. The growth, the doctor said,  was cancerous. The tests also showed the cancer in other parts of his body, namely, his lungs.

My father was veteran of the Vietnam war, serving in the Air Force. He once told me that he guarded Agent Orange, the defoliant used to kill the lush vegetation of Vietnam's jungles. Perhaps, this was not the only thing it killed.  He never talked about his experience there very much. It was too hard for him.  He was unable to disentangle himself from the horrors he witnessed, so much so that he couldn't even watch movies about the subject. It changed him.

As a father, he was sorely lacking. He drank too much and was never keen on discipline and structure. He was there/not there. It's hard to explain unless you've experienced it: the feeling of someone being present and not present. It's as though his body returned from Vietnam, but his soul remained. I recall very little emotional connection from my father while I was growing up. I have no doubts that he loved me and consider my childhood, all things considered, relatively scar free. But I also don't remember a lot of affection.  I don't remember him at birthday parties; I remember waiting for him to come home from the bar. I remember going to the bar at 10 years old.

I rebelled in my teenage years and was given a lot of leeway. I was never really disciplined, and knowing this, I never really pushed it that far. What would be the point if no one was going to come get me? I grew up (or out) of it and settled down.

In 2003, my daughter Lily was born, and something inside of my father changed. He became a loving, doting grandfather, inundating my daughter with such affection, the likes of which I had never seen. He showered my new family with gifts in an attempt, I think, to make amends. I appreciated the help and gifts from my father, but that hole that I felt was still there. Apparently it could not be filled with things.

Before he discovered the growth on his head, he stopped drinking, a part out of necessity and a part out of a new consciousness. He started going back to church. A lapsed catholic, he sensed, I think, that there was something wrong with his soul. He was taking steps to fix that. He started taking my mother on nice vacations and watching what he ate. I concluded that with the birth of my daughter, he saw an opportunity for his own rebirth. I appreciated and treasured his relationship with my daughter. However, my relationship with him was still in shambles.

I am to blame too. I could have confronted him and taken the difficult path and made myself vulnerable. Alas, I did not. Prideful, I told myself that I did not do the damage, it was not mine to undo. I was wrong. Life is for learning. I did learn from my father the type of father I didn't want to be, I told myself, so there's some value in that.

In January or February of 2006 he announced that he had cancer. He told us he would be getting treatment and that the prognosis was unclear. He would be getting radiation and chemotherapy to fight this monster. A few months later, in July, my son Max was born. This seemed to steel his resolve to fight. It wore on him, but he had a purpose. He started a time capsule for his grand kids, with thoughts and notes and memorabilia. I, thinking he was winning his war with cancer, thought this was novel. Looking back I see he was creating his legacy.

Sometime in the summer after Max was born, my father called me.

"Hi, dad" I said.
"Hi son. I just wanted to call and talk to you" he said, seriously.

I put my lawyer hat on. I was thinking he was going to ask me about trusts and estates or living wills. I was completely unprepared for  what followed.

" I want to apologize for being a drunk for all those years. I should've been a better father." he said, his voice cracking.

"Da..." I was stunned. It was like a cool rain on a hot summer day, rinsing over the heat and uncomfortableness, washing it away. I responded, my voice strained with emotion.

"...that's all I ever wanted from you."  It's hard to believe that those words from my father could undo all the feelings of resentment I had. But they did. Just like that. I can't change the fact that my history with my father is what it is. But forgiveness and love really are powerful things.

I was closer with my father for the last few months of his life than I ever was for the previous 34 years. He died on January 20, 2007. The chemo and radiation proved too much for his body to handle and he died of a heart attack.  I cried, a little, mostly for my mother. They were truly soul mates and they adored each other and were having fun being Mumuu and Bumpy. But I didn't cry for my father.

It's not that I wasn't sad. I was. Or that I wasn't going to miss him. I do. I would have wept if my father had died with this strangeness between us. In retrospect, he was making his peace with himself, his God, his son. In doing so, he allowed me to make peace with myself and with him. And let him go. I am thankful he gave this gift to me.

Accounting for taste

For a while now I've held a fairly strong opinion about a particular topic. This opinion has turned friends and loved ones against me, made colleagues whose trust and respect I have gained question my sanity and made strangers instantly dislike me (which, thinking back, is not that rare). I believe that pie is superior to cake. There it is. I did not arrive at this opinion easily or half-heartedly. Nor am I alone: Adam Carolla has commented on the awesomeness of pie and there is a blog devoted to the comparison between pie and cake. This is not to say I don't like cake. I do. But if at gunpoint I would choose pie. Here are some other gunpoint decisions.

• Empire over Star Wars
• Pulp Fiction over Reservoir Dogs
• John over Paul (White Album over Sgt. Pepper)
• Gibson over Fender
• Marianne over Ginger
• Guinness over anything else
• Connery over Moore, Lazenby, Dalton, Brosnan or Craig

I would make these assertions not as "I prefer" but as "X is better". I'm not going to foray into the pointless exercise of "It's just your opinion"  and "It's not right or wrong, just preference". Blah. For me, the best pie I ever had wipes the floor with the best cake I ever had.

Allow me to explain. Think of a cake. Simple ingredients: flour, egg, sugar, butter, leavening, vanilla or chocolate. Mix, Bake, Frost... Presto-chango Cake. They even have instant cakes that are idiot-proof and deliver satisfactory results. Of course, you can over-mix made from scratch cakes and have tough or dry cakes, but for the most part, pretty basic. And delicious. Let me state again, I like cake.

But a pie is no simple apply, lather, rinse repeat deal. First there is the crust. Oh the crust. A delicate blend of flour, lard, butter, salt and sometimes sugar, blended just so and brought together by a cold liquid. No over- mixing please. And chilled. And wait. And brought out to be rolled just right. The chilled butter will create pockets of air and the lard will melt at a different rate to create a delicacy that is at once tender and crusty and...heavenly. Or you could create a graham cracker crust,or a hybrid, as advocated by the America's Test Kitchen for some custard pies. It takes skill and experience to make perfect pie crust. Which brings me to the filling.

Savory or sweet, the filling completes the pie. I would be content to just eat the crust, if need be, but an expertly prepared filling is Divine on its own. Whether the savory silky goodness of a quiche , the rich sweetness of pecan pie, or the nostalgic euphoria of apple pie, there is nothing better. Even cake's best argument, cheesecake, is actually a custard pie. The chemistry and timing needed to combine superb crust and delicious filling is not a hasty undertaking and is not for the weak. Frosting can cover up sub-par cake, but sub-par pie is just that, sub-par. And completely unacceptable.

For me, a slice of expertly made blueberry pie, a strong cup of coffee and good conversation is like a momentary foray into Shangri-la. Cake has never taken me there. In fact, I would say, pie takes the cake.