Sugar Daddy
My father, a tall, red-headed man, loved to eat. He carried the extra weight that was the sign of
prosperity in the fifties; the kind of glorious weight that demanded a higher waistline on a man’s
pants. He was our food hero, our lifeline to all things tasty and fattening and sweet. Dad was the
one who would often rescue us from Mom’s cooking by bringing home take-out from the Clam
Box, our family’s favorite seafood restaurant. He would arrive with arms full of white boxes,
spilling over with fried clams, fried oysters, fried flounder, french fries and the side vegetable,
tartar sauce. Those white boxes, spotted with the seeping grease from the food, were a harbinger
of the heavenly lip-smacking meal to come. We would crowd around, divvying out the boxes,
and would all soon retreat to a chair or spot on the sofa to inhale the meal in record time.
To say that my father felt tartar sauce was critical to a seafood meal is an understatement. Once,
on a family trip, we stopped at a Denny’s type of place, the kind of place where all the foods on
the menu are accompanied by photos that show the meal on a plate. My father ordered the fish
sandwich, which looked amazing. A billowy, soft bun, a crispy deep fried filet of fish just
slightly bigger than the bun. A tender piece of curly lettuce peeking out from under the bun. A
side of perfectly browned and salted french fries. And a small, plastic cup of tartar sauce.
When our meal arrived, Dad noticed with dismay that the tartar sauce was missing. He waved
over the waitress and brought out the discrepancy. The waitress disappeared into the kitchen,
and returned a minute or so later to explain that they were out of tartar sauce, and would my
father prefer mayonnaise instead? Dad’s brow furrowed. We never liked when this happened.
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Dad’s mad brow was not a good sign. He blustered to the waitress, “you can see clearly that the
menu shows tartar sauce as being a part of this order!” She tried to manage what we all knew
was an escalating situation, but once Dad crosses that line, he has a hard time finding his way
back. He stood up, and walked forcefully into the kitchen. We all looked at each other. Mom
was quiet. I don’t think any of us ate a bite until Dad returned a few minutes later, with a small
plastic cup full of tartar sauce held high in his hand. Apparently, he had confronted the chef,
asking if he had pickle relish. The chef had said yes. He asked the chef if he had mayonnaise,
knowing full well that the answer was going to be yes. He then told the chef to mix the two
together and give him the tartar sauce that was part of the deal. The chef, realizing he had a
situation on his hand, did what he was asked, and the stranger in his kitchen was immediately
appeased. Dad happily spread his tartar sauce-like substance on his sandwich, and ate it with
great delight.
Our family trips were raucous affairs. We would all load up in the station wagon and head to my
grandparents for a week or more, making the trip in a long single day. My brother would ride
shotgun in the front seat between my father (driving) and my mother (never driving.) I would
share the center row with my two older sisters. The two younger girls got the enviable back area,
where the seats folded down and pillows and blankets formed a viable nest. We would stop often
on those trips, attending to the restroom needs of a group of six kids. But as often as not, it was
because my father had spotted that icon of 1950‘s road travel: Stuckey’s. The billboards would
start announcing its appearance miles ahead, and count us down slowly until he couldn’t take the
suspense any more. Eventually we would arrive, and for a few moments get to run free and wild
while my parents shopped inside. Mom would head for the coffee counter, ordering a cup of
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black coffee and throwing it back like a shot of whiskey. Dad, on the other hand, would zero in
on one of his favorite road snacks, the Stuckey’s World Famous Pecan Log. This was to be his
treat alone. None of us would get a bite, even though it was essentially a box of candy in a single
roll. This monstrosity represented the best of the era’s snacking ingenuity. Maraschino cherry-
laced nougat was dipped in warm, melted caramel and rolled in chopped pecans. It was simple,
cloyingly sweet, and meant to be cut into bite size portions and shared. But Dad would buy that
pecan log, carry it happily to the car, and eat it like a giant, oversized candy bar. A normal
Snickers bar, to give a sense of relative size, weighs in at 2 ounces. The Stuckey’s World
Famous Pecan Log weighed 12 ounces. For the rest of the road trip, Dad would float on a
divinity cloud of elevated blood sugar and if we were lucky, that cloud wouldn’t burst until after
we had arrived at our final destination.
My father would often do the family shopping, using multiple carts and outdoing everyone in the
store with the amount of groceries he would buy. Mom rarely stepped foot inside a grocery
store, and when she did, she circled the outer aisles with the heightened alertness of a gazelle
being stalked by a cheetah. When my mother did, on occasion, run to the store out of pure
necessity, it was a swat team mission. In and out. Take no prisoners. Grab and go. And under no
circumstances, dawdle or consider your options. Dad, on the other hand, could spend hours in the
grocery store, unearthing it’s secrets with the intensity of an ancient explorer.
I would often accompany my father on his hunting/gathering, and with my list in hand, grab what
I needed for my own cooking experiments and throw the items in one of the carts. Dad didn’t
mind. Quite the opposite. My father was my biggest supporter as I developed my early cooking
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skills. I secretly believe he was responsible for the cookbook I was using as my bible, and all the
future cookbooks I was to receive as I grew up (and out.)
I think back now to those shopping expeditions. I think about how Dad would meander down all
the aisles, picking up items and checking them out, considering whether or not they would end
up in the cart. He might linger over the smoked oysters, before selecting a particular brand. He
would throw a few tins in the cart, look at me, and say “remind me to get Saltines!” Other times
it was in the bread aisle, with all its yeasty goodness available in either sweet or savory forms.
Back in the refrigerator section Dad and I would always stop and get Pillsbury cinnamon rolls,
the anchor for his famous Sunday breakfast. Eggs, milk, soup, cereal; staple after staple were
thrown with loving abandon into a cart. Last, but not least, was the cookie aisle; my father’s
personal eden. There, among all the other treats that we knew so well; the Oreos, Nutterbutters
and various brands of chocolate chip cookies, sat Dad’s idea of sugary glory. The almighty
pinwheel cookie; a flower-shaped graham cracker base, piled high with mounds of sweet
marshmallow fluff, and heavily coated with chocolate. Dad would zone in on that familiar
package like a man possessed, with the peek-a-boo window so you could actually see some of
the cookies. Every week he believed in the impossible, that these were his. His alone. He
would quietly put the bag in a cart, almost furtively, hoping I or any other siblings who had come
along hadn’t seen the purchase. His only hope at actually getting to eat one or more of these
delights was to, first, fly under the radar of the family that they were in the house. Second, he
knew he had to instill fear in us, his six children, that to touch those cookies was to risk certain
death.
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We weren’t fooled by Dad’s techniques. We knew there were pinwheels somewhere in the
shopping bags as they were unloaded into our home. There always were. We also knew where he
would hide them, because he always hid them in the same place, in the cabinet above the
refrigerator. Why he never changed the hiding place is a mystery. We might have been foiled if
they had been, oh, say, kept under lock and key in his bedroom. But as it was, we could easily
move a chair to reach the pinwheels, and their gooey deliciousness was only enhanced by the
thrill of rule-breaking. And we had it made. With six members in the band of thieves, each
striking at a different hour in a covert operation, it was next to impossible to get caught. After all,
Mom wouldn’t be caught dead near the kitchen unless she had to be in there. And Dad was at
work until way too late most nights, so his precious stash was left unprotected, calling us like
sailors to sirens. We had an unwritten rule: As long as we left a single cookie, a solitary soldier
in the fight for Dad’s pleasure, his wrath would be duly modified. He would be upset, repeatedly
begging us to leave his pinwheels alone, but at least he had one. And there was always next
week’s shopping, when hope could again spring eternal.
So every week, there Dad would be, exploring the gustatory options at the grocers, and there I
would be, slipping item after item into the cart. I think back and can’t remember how we
handled the wine issue, since, as Julia Child’s willing apprentice, I often needed wine for her
recipes. I wish I could remember being ten, and saying to him, “oh, Daddy, I need a dry white, I
think its called char-do-nnay,” or “how many cups are in a bottle Daddy?” But I don’t remember
how we handled the issue. I just know that I had the wine I needed to cook with, and if my
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parents came into the kitchen while their ten year old daughter was cooking and saw a half
empty bottle of wine nearby, somehow it didn’t concern them.
My father taught me how to shop at a grocery store. Bring a list, of course. You don’t want to
later start a recipe and find you need a random ingredient. But don’t bring your watch. And
don’t be constrained by your list. Take time to meander down the aisles, discovering the new and
amazing foods that have been lined up for your consideration. You may discover something that
will inspire a creation fit for a king, or you may find an old friend that can comfort you with a
single bite. Dad was my enabler, my conspirator, and my guide as I learned how to plan a meal
and deliver the goods. He balanced my mother’s avoidance of food with his own love of it,
providing me with a way to pursue the greatest hobby I have ever enjoyed. I have often thanked
him for the cookbooks, the grocery trips, and the willingness to try anything I might create. I
think, if I had a bag of pinwheels right now, I would definitely save one for him. At least
probably.
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