Pop was the chef of the house. He prepared every meal. Hot breakfast every morning. Wholesome packed lunch to take to school everyday. Dinner for four every night. He set the table, and he cleared it. Washed every plate and pot. Did all the grocery shopping. Maintained the modest kitchen, packed it with interesting new ethnic foods and fun gadgets. Pop was a cooking dynamo.

He became a cook in college. Ma's family was very concerned with communing with each other around the dinner table. While ma and pop were dating it was insisted upon that he share in the experience. Pop's ma, well she wasn't too adventurous when it came to cuisine. Vegetables were to be cooked to a grey mushy death. The spice cabinet was basically salt and pepper and not much else. She had a short repetoire, that I found monotonous on the few times a year I had to encounter it, much less the daily serving my pop got growing up with it. With my ma, he was introduced to a Eastern European palate. Germanic and American infused Ukranian fare. And speaking from my own experiences with that side of the family, the shit is mouthgasm yum tummytastic.

So he called my grandma up for her borscht recipe. He whipped up a batch with enormous success for his frat brothers. They demanded he start making more of the delictable dishes he was sampling from my ma's family. He found a happy place there in the kitchen.

Oh man, I honestly don't think I still understand the value of growing up with a masterful knife weilder. Probably our strongest bond, the love of cooking. Most times, the kitchen being his place of refuge, we all basically left pop to his own devices in there. Occasionally, when the meal was vast, like a dinner party or Thanksgiving being hosted at our home, he would call upon me and my sis for assistance. Teacher at heart, he insisted we learn the proper ways around the pots and pans. To this day, I feel most comfortable and confident in the kitchen.

The breakfasts. The daily grind was mostly quick and easy. But then on the weekends. You'd wake up to the air filled with freshly baked banana muffins. Sizzle of sausages that he made from scratch, grinding the meat himself and making patties a few nights before. Fluffy waffles with hot syrup combined with fresh fruit. Omelettes, draped in a Spanish Madeira wine, tomato and pepper, vibrantly spiced sauce. Blueberries he dried himself to sprinkle on your cereal. Christ, he made oatmeal taste great.

He has a passion for exotic flavors, and tasting the world. He'd come home from grocery shopping always with one new vegetable or fruit they started stocking in the produce isle. Making family trips to an ethnic neighborhood to purchase a bounty of their culture. Always venturing out to prepare a dish we had at a restuarant or he saw on the cooking shows of PBS. Rule in our house, you have to try something new three times before you can decide that you don't like or want it again. To this day there isn't anything I won't try, and I just don't understand picky eaters.

A deep list exists of favorites. He always asks what I want him to make whenever I visit the folks. I find it extremely difficult to decided on what meals I'd like while I'm there. Smacking my head on the plane, dammit I should have asked for orange duck, or hot and sour soup with panfried potstickers, or asparagus manicotti, or chops with apple stuffing, or soft shell crab tempura, or even his chili and hamburgers. The list goes on.

Homie knows how to make the warm hearth. Big props to pops and the culinary skills that reside in his back pocket. Fuck, can't believe I'm gonna miss Thanksgiving with the folks this year. Dammit.