Food has always been one of the greatest forms of expression to me. A lovingly prepared meal, a thoughtfully chosen restaurant, an old recipe passed down through generations. Most life changing events have been celebrated or mourned with food: birthdays, graduations, proposals, anniversaries, job promotions,funerals, etc. Personally, my father would always take me out to celebrate the least (and most) significant events. Something as simple as being together was worth celebrating and for a long time we had the habit of eating at a restaurant together once a week. He was a man who loved food but above all loved writing. He was not a food writer but he was a widely successful writer, a very admired man in the literary community and a man who I have always been and will continue to be in awe of. My love for writing and my love for food came in great part from him. This brings me to his last meal.
My life is not as luxurious as it probably came across from my past posts. I was not bouncing around from Buenos Aires to New York City because of my impossibly fabulous life. I live in New York but my father lived in Buenos Aires and so I would be there to be with him. I am so grateful to have been able to be by his side for so long and have enjoyed him for many years. After all of my experiences with my father and our shared love of food it was only appropriate that I would be the one to (unknowingly) make him his last meal. Had I known, perhaps it would have been different. But it was the only thing he ate enthusiastically and for this I feel comfort. I made him my beloved gazpacho, the number one dish in my diet.
It was not perfect. They were out of cucumbers at the market and croutons do not exist in Argentina. The croutons were toasted, cut, and seasoned cubes of baguette. The lack of cucumber meant I doubled other ingredients and therefore it was not the same as always. But it was, at its heart, a dish that my mother made for me, and a dish that I always loved. My father would ask me to make it for him often, a favorite of his in the summer. I think it reminded us both of times when we were younger, perhaps happier, and our family was complete.
I don't know when I will be able to make gazpacho again. Hopefully when I do I will be ready to remember happier times with food and the hundreds of amazing meals we shared together, the conversations we had during those meals, and the relationship that they helped build. I am so thankful for my father. I am so thankful for food.
