Emotional Eating

My dad was out for a visit, in part to celebrate his 80th birthday. My sister joined us, and it was the first time we were all together for that much time in well, I don't know how long.

Emotional language in any family is unique and unfathomable, even for those of us who grew up and became fluent but somehow moved away and lost our proficiency. Our family has always expressed caring in terms of things and events. Dad worked hard, wasn't home much, but took us on our fabled cross-country roadtrips so we'd be exposed to lots of different experiences. Prior to us kids, my parents raced cars, had a sailboat, went hiking and skiing and golfing, (oh my!) I remember skiing and backpacking in the Adirondacks and working on the sailboat but not actually sailing it... I hear this is how boat ownership usually goes. Anyhow, the sportscars and sailboats eventually gave way to parochial school tuition, horseback riding lessons, and family vacations.

Part of the travel experience was trying different foods, and loving it. Honestly, it never would have occurred to me to refuse to try frog legs, shark fin soup, spicy curries etc. It probably helped that we'd drive to Toronto and have a late dinner, so it didn't matter if it was Indonesian shrimp cakes, we were hungry and rather, um, receptive. The guilt trips helped, I'm sure.

Over the years I have developed quite a few favorite foods that have become ritualized in the family dialect of Food = Love. So when my dad schedules a trip to drive out to see us, it usually starts with a shopping list. From Buffalo, the famed Fowler's sponge candy, Downey's honey butter, and Anchor Bar wing sauce. From Toronto's Finnish bakery: pirraka and loaves and loaves of pulla (cardamon egg bread dusted with almonds and sugars; known in the Barnesyard as "Grandpa toast"). From Shissler's Cheese Haus and Kennedy's BBQ in Ohio, unbelievable swiss, bacon, ham and relish. And from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, pasties.

When my Dad pulls up, there is a great production of unloading the car and all the treats. It is his offering, overspilling the freezer. He seems to enjoy the gathering of foodstuffs, the journey, almost more than the visit itself. And despite his age and his frailty, he insists on driving so he can provide the feast, made more valuable by the miles traveled. Part pilgrimage, part picnic.

Dad's hearing is poor even with the much-resisted hearing aid, and he is rather unsteady on his feet. Even though I saw him in August, I noticed how much weight he's lost and how the years seem to have caught up with him. Other than enjoying the grandkids and telling stories, our main activity during his visits is - surprise! - eating. Most of the fabulous ethnic restaurants I've tried here in the Twin Cities were suggested by Dad, as he researches the "Chowhounds" website with a vengeance. {These deserve their own entry, but for now I'll name three you must try: Bangkok Thai Deli, Gandhi Mahal, and Harry Singh's.}

The much-appreciated Minnesota Zoo gift membership was up for renewal, Dad's traditional Christmas gift to the family. In the midst of filling out the online form this morning shortly before he was leaving, my Dad announces that being 80 must be getting to him. I turned to him and was surprised to see him crying, for only the second time in our 40 years together. He said that he's always sad when it comes time to be leaving, but is much more aware that he doesn't know if he'll see any of us again. I awkwardly gave him a hug, patted his arm, offered reassurances meant to be soothing. Inwardly, I berated myself for moments of frustration I'd had with him over the week's visit. He just seemed so vulnerable and frail, walking slowly out to his car - cane in hand, new walker already stowed in the trunk, pride visibly diminished.

His parting shot? "I know you worry about me driving and wish I'd fly, but how could I bring you all the things you enjoy???"

How indeed? Happy trails, Dad.