But he was the only dad I knew that really cooked, even though his fare was simple. If you have listened to Tony Bourdain yap in his delightfully fevered manner for five minutes you have probably heard him say that when he decided to go to culinary school it was perceived to be on par with trafficking in illegal human body parts. Not me. And I have Dad to thank for that. I never wanted to be a professional chef, but I always just thought that any civilized dude worth his salt should know his way around, That room with all the big white things, as one of my good friend Barry’s three wives used to call the kitchen, she of no talent whatsoever there according to him.

Other attributes can accrue to understanding how to prepare simple food well. Once, in my kitchen in Richmond, Virginia I was cooking for my late, great, gone too early from this mortal plain friend, Reed Boatwright and his fiance, Gloria. Patrick, my middle son, he to, gone way too early, then a teenager, was hanging around the kitchen, a big fan of Reed’s. The boys loved his stories from Cincinnati and hearing about our misdeeds as kids there. As I was plating up veal cutlets, pork tenderloin or salmon something, Gloria leaned into Patrick and said, “Pat, you know, girls love guys who know how to cook.” I discovered this long after my dating days were over. But even though Patrick had no problem making friends or attracting girlfriends he took it to heart. He cooked professionally, if briefly, while living in Boone, North Carolina, and became the house cook at an apartment he shared with some other guys there. In fact, the very last time I spoke with him he was calling to confirm with me that his roommates should not be smoking in the kitchen while he was cooking. He said, “They aren’t respecting the food,”

I told him he was right. I think about that conversation lots.

The other obvious reason to be the master of the kitchen is to be able to cook what you like the way you like it. Seems simple; and I think ultimately this is what led my dad to move more and more into the realm of the burner, cast iron and the oven.

At the end of his life, starring in a three month, three act play with no curtain call in Greenville Memorial Hospital in Greenville, S.C., my dad and I had time together to talk about things. We had no serious issues. We were long past that. But I did have some questions to ask him, one in particular. I said, “Dad, can I ask you a question about Mom’s cooking?” The last, bright, vital parts of his body were his blue eyes, and if they didn’t twinkle, they tried to. And it gave me permission to go on. I said, “Dad, you cooked out of self defense, didn’t you?”

He smiled.

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