After you died, I became the cook for Dad, Ruthie and myself. Or at least I thought so in my mind. The first real meal I attempted was fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy. What was I thinking at 12 years old to make such a dish? I struggled and it was a disaster.
Ruthie took one look, and snubbed her nose at it. “That’s disgusting. I’m not eating that!”
My chicken sat skinless, the potatoes lumpy, and the gravy looked like a few cats used the bowl to vomit. An inch of oil floated on top.
I told this story at Dad’s eulogy because I came to realize he encouraged me to keep trying, although I was unaware of it at the time. He told me how good my chicken was and tried to convince Ruthie to eat. No doing. I couldn’t blame her but I beamed when I watched him gobble it all up.
Dad would brag to my friends, “Lynn makes the best fried chicken.”
Many years later before his passing, he confessed he puked after that dinner. I wasn’t sure what to think. I can now cook just about anything and make a pretty mean fried chicken—maybe as good as yours. And I’m pretty sure I owe that to Dad.