Dad and the Dish by Barbara Bordieri Spiezio

Dad's tough love was love indeed

The linguini with clams was perfect, or so I thought. The pasta was al dente, the sauce was the way Dad liked it, but he had a problem with the dish. Can you believe it? The dish.

It was Christmas Eve, sometime in the late 1980s. I’d been working very hard on the dinner and getting ready for Christmas Day. My father was visiting for a few nights. We were always trying to please him—at least I was. He was particular about everything, but especially food.

Christmas Eve dinner involved numerous dishes and hours of prep. I don’t remember the exact menu, but I know we were serving linguine with clams. The pasta had to be perfectly cooked, with the right sauce, and served at just the right time.

Courtesy of Striped Spatula

We’d already had at least one course, so now the next would go into the bowls that had been previously set on the table. Thinking about the dishes I had at the time, it was probably a soup dish—a seemingly minor detail. Except it wasn’t

Barbara center, Dad’s (L) expectant hand on the table

My father had a thing about eating pasta. Not only did it have to be perfectly cooked, but it had to be swimming in the clam sauce juices, with that premium linguini sitting at the bottom of the serving bowl.

This required quick, surgical-like skill to ensure everyone else was served their portion first, so he could secure his prized pasta.

Finally, we set the dish in front of him. He picked up his fork, looked down at the bowl, and inexplicably erupted. “The dish isn’t the right shape! It’s not oval! How could you expect me to eat this? I thought you were a good cook. I thought you knew better. You people will eat anything!”

What kind of cook was I to serve him pasta in that dish? And on and on and on he went for what felt like longer than one person could criticize another, yet on he continued.

It was at that moment that I realized I had gone from being the precious daughter to a substitute for my badgered mother, because the tirade sounded like an argument I’d heard before in some other way or shape. As the cacophony of criticism rang on, the hurt inside me erupted in an angry, “SHUT UP!” The table went silent, and I burst into tears.

What happened next was unexpected. Before I could say another word, my father rushed up from the table, tears in his eyes, to console me. “Barbara, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry. I shouldn’t have said those things. I love you!”

“I love you, too, Dad!” We hugged and cried together, just briefly. We let go and wiped our eyes.

“Okay, let’s all sit down and enjoy this wonderful food. Thank you, Barbara, it looks perfect.” Everyone at the table chimed in with agreement, and the delicious food was consumed alongside laughs and lively conversation.

I was remembering that incident today. As time passed, the things he had said—when he was spewing out all the reasons why the pasta was impossible to eat because it was in the wrong-shaped dish—came to mind. It should have been in an oval dish.

Ahhh, the bowl

So, the next time I was out shopping and saw an oval dish, I bought six.

I still have those wonderful dishes, and every time I use them (we use them a lot, especially for pasta), I think of him. That was not my father at his best, but it was my father as he could truly be sometimes—critical, difficult, deflecting his own quirks, and loving, all at the same time.

He was a complex man I remember fondly, warts and all, every time I eat from those oval dishes.

Thank you, Dad.

Editor’s Note: Thank you, Barbara. Merry Christmas