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Authors: Jann Arden
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to ask her at what temperature to cook a roast or how to make a pie crust or how long to boil spaghetti. She didn’t know how to do anything. We had some very well-done spaghetti over the years. A single noodle was usually about an inch in diameter. Italian folks would have lit themselves on fire if they’d had to eat my mother’s pasta.
My dad didn’t talk to us much at the table or any other place, for that matter. He mostly kept to himself. When he did talk, it was often in the form of yelling. He always seemed to be mad about something. He always seemed to be at the end of his rope. He would say, “I’m at the end of my goddamn rope with you kids.” So I guess that’s how I knew he was at the end of his rope. I have very few memories of him laughing back then. There weren’t a lot of things for him to laugh about, I guess.
I thought that’s how all dads were—swearing, grouchy bastards. My new friend Theresa’s dad yelled a lot too. We talked about that from time to time. I had a kindred spirit in Theresa. We compared grumpy dad stories whenever possible. We still do after thirty-five years. I met Theresa the first day of grade four as we stood outside the elementary school waiting to go into our homerooms. She was so tall compared to me, and shy. I found out a few weeks later that she lived just up the road from us but was assigned to a different bus. I was excited to learn she was within walking distance.
My dad ate with us less and less as the years went by; it was rare to have him home. And when Duray was about fourteen he tended to turn up at the dinner table less and less as well. Then it was just mom and Patrick and me sitting there sawing through porkchops because my mother believed that pork should be cooked to the point where you could make shoes out of it and walk on hot coals without feeling a thing. They always say you should chew your food at least thirty times before you swallow; that was never a problem for anyone in our family. We
had
to chew our food thirty times in order to swallow it without choking to death. We all had really overdeveloped jaw and temple muscles.
Every time she cooked meat, my mother insisted it had to be cooked thoroughly or you could and would get very sick.
“That chicken has to be very well done or we’ll all be sick,” she’d lament. Beef, pork, chicken, any kind of animal flesh at all, had to be cooked until it was a fifth of its original size. She’d put a roast the size of a bowling ball in the oven, and four hours later she’d take it out and it’d be the size and colour of a hockey puck. She had had one bad incident with undercooked chicken that prompted her to fry the hell out of everything. We all got terribly sick from it, apparently. (There is no concrete proof that it was indeed the chicken.)
I am very happy to say that I don’t remember having food poisoning. I just remember chewing chunks of well-done meat until my temples ached like I had been gnawing on twenty-three pieces of Dubble Bubble for days on end. My dad would often make us sit in front of our plates until we had cleared every morsel off them. I am not sure what that was all about. There was always one of us sitting there in front of our plate staring at a pile of Brussels sprouts or green beans or boiled cabbage. I hated Brussels sprouts more than any vegetable in the world. They tasted like dog farts and copper pennies.
I have a feeling those were the nights that my dad had had more rum than usual. He’d be extra cranky and that meant we’d be watching the clock on the wall and missing
I Dream of Jeannie
. If it was Brussels sprouts we had to sit in front of, we could be there for hours. My dad would usually forget about us sweating it out in frontof our warm glasses of milk. My mom would finally come and take our plates away and tell us we were off the hook. He’d go off and have a cigarette or work on some project he had on the go. My mom would release us from our dinner
My dad didn’t talk to us much at the table or any other place, for that matter. He mostly kept to himself. When he did talk, it was often in the form of yelling. He always seemed to be mad about something. He always seemed to be at the end of his rope. He would say, “I’m at the end of my goddamn rope with you kids.” So I guess that’s how I knew he was at the end of his rope. I have very few memories of him laughing back then. There weren’t a lot of things for him to laugh about, I guess.
I thought that’s how all dads were—swearing, grouchy bastards. My new friend Theresa’s dad yelled a lot too. We talked about that from time to time. I had a kindred spirit in Theresa. We compared grumpy dad stories whenever possible. We still do after thirty-five years. I met Theresa the first day of grade four as we stood outside the elementary school waiting to go into our homerooms. She was so tall compared to me, and shy. I found out a few weeks later that she lived just up the road from us but was assigned to a different bus. I was excited to learn she was within walking distance.
My dad ate with us less and less as the years went by; it was rare to have him home. And when Duray was about fourteen he tended to turn up at the dinner table less and less as well. Then it was just mom and Patrick and me sitting there sawing through porkchops because my mother believed that pork should be cooked to the point where you could make shoes out of it and walk on hot coals without feeling a thing. They always say you should chew your food at least thirty times before you swallow; that was never a problem for anyone in our family. We
had
to chew our food thirty times in order to swallow it without choking to death. We all had really overdeveloped jaw and temple muscles.
Every time she cooked meat, my mother insisted it had to be cooked thoroughly or you could and would get very sick.
“That chicken has to be very well done or we’ll all be sick,” she’d lament. Beef, pork, chicken, any kind of animal flesh at all, had to be cooked until it was a fifth of its original size. She’d put a roast the size of a bowling ball in the oven, and four hours later she’d take it out and it’d be the size and colour of a hockey puck. She had had one bad incident with undercooked chicken that prompted her to fry the hell out of everything. We all got terribly sick from it, apparently. (There is no concrete proof that it was indeed the chicken.)
I am very happy to say that I don’t remember having food poisoning. I just remember chewing chunks of well-done meat until my temples ached like I had been gnawing on twenty-three pieces of Dubble Bubble for days on end. My dad would often make us sit in front of our plates until we had cleared every morsel off them. I am not sure what that was all about. There was always one of us sitting there in front of our plate staring at a pile of Brussels sprouts or green beans or boiled cabbage. I hated Brussels sprouts more than any vegetable in the world. They tasted like dog farts and copper pennies.
I have a feeling those were the nights that my dad had had more rum than usual. He’d be extra cranky and that meant we’d be watching the clock on the wall and missing
I Dream of Jeannie
. If it was Brussels sprouts we had to sit in front of, we could be there for hours. My dad would usually forget about us sweating it out in frontof our warm glasses of milk. My mom would finally come and take our plates away and tell us we were off the hook. He’d go off and have a cigarette or work on some project he had on the go. My mom would release us from our dinner
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