I was making pancakes with my son this past Father’s Day (yesterday) and it reminded me of when I was around his age (7) and began cooking. It was definitely something my father encouraged. Despite his insistance that my sister and I grow up to be educated independent women, his sensibilities regarding a “good woman” did not depart from his West Indian roots and for him that included a woman that could cook.

My sister and I began experimenting with transforming raw goods into palatable meals very early on. It was a chore that we eagerly embraced under the sometimes supervision and unwavering encouragement from Big Poppa, aka Big Red, aka Daddy. He was our greatest cheerleader not by demanding, bribing or creating some unique game to diguise this chore. My father simply ate all of our concoctions. Even when we declined to to ingest our our creations he indulged and offered sound critique including “more seasoning”, “less baking powder”, or “next time cook it longer”. We trusted his opinion as we knew he would be truthful but his honesty was tempered with love couched in encouragement. We were emboldened and charged into the kitchen knowing that while our recipes may not always be cook book perfect we felt we could do no wrong and the best part was that we had a willing customer who would gladly consume the fruits of our labor.

Those memories are a constant source of amusement for me; for that I am forever grateful. Nowadays almost every time I prepare a meal I am reminded of the start of it all and my Dad is there. Happy Father’s day to all the dads and fathers who eat their little children’s bad cooking.