Dad’s Rules: Ice Cream

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Welcome to “Dad’s Rules”, a new recurring series at Seeya Bub. In this series, I’ll celebrate all the things that made my Dad, Scott Bradshaw, the man he was and the man that he still is in my memory and in the lives of those he loved. But before I launch in, let me tell you why this series is so important to me.

Death is difficult. That’s the understatement of the century. Losing a loved one leaves a gaping hole in the lives of those left behind that can never truly be replaced.

But there’s something worse than death, and that’s losing your loved one again.

I started this blog because I wanted to help those who were suffering. I wanted to use my Dad’s story to provide perspective to those suffering from mental illness or contemplating suicide. I wanted to prevent suicide in the lives of those in my community and throughout the world. Suicide devastated my family, and I just couldn’t sit idly by and watch it happen to other families. I wanted to make a huge difference—an eternal one.

Selfishly, however, I started this blog because I wanted to hang on to my Dad. I wanted to capture the 26 years full of memories that I had with him, and memorialize them forever. And I wanted to do this because…I felt like I was losing him again.

Time is fleeting, and as it moves on it is unbelievably easy to lose memories that we swore we never would. Unfortunately, I’ve felt that happening in my life more than I’d like. There were times when I would wake up in the middle of the night in a severe panic thinking I forgot what his voice sounded like. There were moments when I would sob uncontrollably because I felt like I was losing the visualization of his face and his physical features. There were instances when people would tell stories about my Dad that I should have remembered; and when I didn’t remember those stories, I felt a sickening sense of guilt. I would cry and sob when I would forget things about my Dad. He was too amazing to be forgotten, and the guilt of being the forgetful one broke me at the soul level.

In a sense, I felt like my Dad was dying again. It was painful enough losing him the first time. To lose his memory, the only thing I had left of him, was unbearable. I couldn’t let it happen.

Yes, I remember the big moments. The powerful, epic stories that showcase my Dad’s courage, strength, and love. But it’s the little moments I cherish most. The day to day interactions. The seemingly simple, anything-but-mundane memories are the ones I wanted. The big memories would be impossible to forget, thank God. It’s the little memories, however, that I needed. The sound of his voice, the smell of his cologne, the infectious laughter and that prize-winning smile. The little memories made up an amazing life, and I just couldn’t let them go.

I also wanted to start this series because I didn’t want my Dad to be defined by his mental illness or his death. Yes, my Dad died from suicide; but he lived for 50 wonderful, amazingly vivid years before that—and he lived those years to the fullest. I couldn’t ignore what happened to my Dad that ended his life prematurely, but I also couldn’t ignore the things that made his life worth living for so long. My Dad is not defined by the “2013” in bronze on his gravestone. My Dad is defined by that dash in between that is full of character, heart, and beautiful simplicity. My Dad was more than a victim of suicide. He was a Father. And a husband. And a brother. And a son. And a friend. And a coworker. And a church member. And a member of our community. He deserved to be remembered for those things, not just for his suffering.

And lastly, I wanted to write this series to share the story of a man that some of you have met, but that many of you haven’t. I’ve been so touched by the folks who read that knew my Dad during his life, and I am glad that I can help those who knew my Dad remember the story of his life; but I am so unbelievably amazed at those of you who read Seeya Bub regularly having never met my Dad. You take time out of your days to read stories of a man that I loved dearly and who loved everyone that he ever encountered. You have no idea how honored I am to carry his story on through the ages. Your reading makes a difference in my life, and in the lives of all who knew my Dad, love him, and miss him every day.

You can only understand my Dad’s struggle and untimely death if you first understand his life. You can only know why this story is important to me if you know why I loved the man that I’m writing about. Sharing my Dad’s rules for life will become one of the greatest honors I could ever have because God graced me with a Father that I didn’t deserve. My Dad never gave me a written set of rules to live by; he didn’t have to. Instead, he taught me how to live through little gestures, corrections full of unconditional love, and a patience that surpasses human understanding. My Dad occupied many roles on his walk through this life; but first and last, he was a teacher. To me, my family, and everyone he ever encountered. We could all live better lives because of the example he gave.

So, I ask you to enjoy “Dad’s Rules”. I ask you to visualize the man I knew and loved as I cling desperately to the moments that made him so lovable and unique. I invite you to remember that my Dad is not defined by his death, but by his life. And I ask you, when the moment seems right, to try and live by my Dad’s Rules to continue spreading the joy and positive energy that my Dad brought to this world.


Dad’s Rule #62: “There’s always room for ice cream.”

My Dad taught me many things in this life. He taught me how to drive. He taught me to love Jesus and the people Jesus loved. He taught me how to ride a bike. He taught me how to repair cracks in the drywall (correction: he “attempted” to teach me).

And yes, he taught me to love ice cream.

My Dad always savored food. He loved a good meal with good company. He loved homecooked dinners that my Mom would make, praising her talent in the kitchen. He loved going out to dinner and chowing down on a steak or a bowl of pasta.

But no matter how big the meal, there was always room for ice cream.

Now this is a rule that I can live with!

I’m pretty sure Dad’s love of ice cream existed long before I came around. From the time I was little, I can always remember sitting in the middle seat of his pickup with Mom against the window as we rambled down the road to Flub’s, a true Hamilton tradition. Flub’s is soft serve ice cream at its finest. It’s creamy, and it’s flavorful, and it’s heavenly. Our little family would stand in a typically-eight-deep-line under the yellow light of the small ice cream shack on a hot July night, pondering the menu with the indecisiveness of a politician in a re-election year. Eventually, we would all make our choices. Dad would order a variety of cyclone—a tasty treat usually mixed with plenty of chocolate sauce and chopped peanuts and whipped cream. Mom would vacillate between fruity sherbets and cyclones and swirled cones, rarely ordering the same thing. I usually ended up with soft-serve sherbet in a dish. Sometimes orange, but most of the time I ended up with the Flub’s specialty: Smurf (note: no real Smurfs are harmed in the making of this dessert). It’s a blue raspberry flavored sherbet that is served every day amidst the three or four daily rotating flavors of sherbet. And of course, I had to have eyes on my sherbet! (Those of you not from Hamilton are likely freaking out right now. Once again, not real Smurf eyes) It wasn’t a kid’s ice cream at Flub’s unless they put those two little sugary candy eyes on your treat. Mom and Dad always made sure I got my eyes on my ice cream…

Blue Smurf Sherbet from Flubs

The ice cream was always delicious, but more than that I remember sitting on the curb or on the lowered tailgate of Dad’s truck in the parking lot near the train tracks eating our dessert with Mom on one side and Dad on the other. Dad would use the long spoon to dig deep into his tall cup before the Ohio humidity could compromise his treat. He would savor every single bite. He never took those moments for granted, and I wish more than anything that I could travel back in time for another one of those family nights at Flub’s. We were all so happy. And we were all together.

And of course, we had delicious ice cream.

Unfortunately, Flub’s was only open during the hot summer months, but that never squelched Dad’s love for ice cream. Growing up, our family always made a big deal out of going out to dinner. Mom was a master chef and cooked most nights, but on a Friday or Saturday night we found a way to go out and enjoy a meal together. Unfortunately for my parents, I quit ordering kid’s meals around age 3, and there was always plenty of food to be had.

But even when the meal was big, there was always room for ice cream if my Dad had his way.

Oftentimes, I think Dad found an excuse for us to eat in the Tri-County area, because there was a Graeter’s Ice Cream located conveniently nearby.

And for those of you who don’t know Graeter’s….let me take a moment to help you realize that your entire life until this very moment has been largely unfulfilled.

Graeter’s is the mecca of ice cream in America. There is simply nothing like it. Anywhere. I’ve taken up the difficult task of trying to prove this wrong by sampling ice creams from all across the country, but nothing ever stacks up. Graeter’s ice cream is flavorful, dense, creamy, and more delicious than anything. But it’s also full of gargantuous chocolate! When they make the ice cream in giant French pots, they push the frozen ice cream mixture to the walls of the pot and pour in molten chocolate. Then, they let the paddles break the chocolate into random size pieces, which offers unbelievable excitement and suspense to the consumer. Sometimes, you get a chocolate chip the size of a penny. Other times, you get a chocolate chip the size of a Toyota Camry.

I made many, many trips to Graeter’s with my Dad over the years; and in all those trips, I only ever saw him order one thing.

Black Raspberry Chip.

It’s Graeter’s house flavor. Bright purple ice cream with a deliciously sweet flavor, intermingled with those luscious chocolate chunks. Yes, he might vary the delivery mechanism on occasion. Sometimes, it was a waffle cone. Other times he got a dish. But to my Dad, Graeter’s only offered one flavor.

Black Raspberry Chip

Dad loved it more than any other ice cream. When we would go on vacation and try other ice cream spots, I always knew what my Dad would say at the end of our dessert: “Good, but nothing like Graeter’s.” And he was always right.

When I was young, Graeter’s didn’t have nearly as many locations throughout the city. Now, thankfully, I can usually find a Graeter’s within 15 minutes of any spot I’m at throughout Cincinnati. There’s even a Graeter’s in Oxford where I work at Miami University. I know from plenty of practice that it’s an eight-and-a-half minute walk from my office to the Oxford Graeter’s. This, dear people, is the greatest accomplishment of my professional career.

But when I was younger, Graeter’s took more time and more investment; but an investment that was always worth it to Dad. And then, something miraculous happened. Graeter’s started hand-packing their ice cream and selling pints in the local grocery store.

When Dad heard the news, he wept. Our lives, and our waistlines, were never the same.

The pints were a bit expensive in the grocery store (“It’s worth every penny,” was Dad’s common refrain), but Mom would occasionally pick them up for us if the sale was right.

And there was no way that pint would make it through the night once Dad found out about it.

Dad taught me lots of things in this life, but we never got around to the “ice cream moderation” lesson. Oftentimes, Mom and I would find Dad camped out on the recliner in our family room with a spoon in one hand…and the entire pint in the other. His excuse? He didn’t want to unnecessarily add another dish to the sink. Good play, Pops. Good play.

Literally, no meal was ever too big to avoid ice cream. Even the unlimited ones. There’s one night that I’ll always remember as proof of my Dad’s unyielding love for ice cream. And, no surprise, it involves more regional food! Montgomery Inn, another Cincinnati-foodie-favorite, offers slabs of ribs the size of a small toddler. And those ribs are some of the absolute best I’ve ever had in my life. But once or twice a year, something magical happens; they decide to offer unlimited ribs. It’s wonderful and disgusting all at the same time. I mark my calendar every year like I would a major holiday.

One year, I decided to make the trip to the Montgomery Inn Boathouse with my Dad, our great family friend Shawn, and my friend Tyler Wade from graduate school at Miami. Dad drove us to the feast in his truck, and after we parked, we sat at our table, bibbed-up, and prepared to devour at least 17 hogs worth of delicious Montgomery Inn ribs. We ate like kings that night, inhaling plate after plate of ribs. Our poor waitress wore her feet out bringing us so many refills. After an hour of gorging had passed, we sat there full of sauce and sodium with belts screaming for relief. And then, my Dad did the unthinkable. He looked at our waitress, completely serious, and said “You all still serve Graeter’s ice cream here, right?”

We all started laughing like madmen, including the waitress. “Dad,” I said, “you can’t be serious. You just ate 14 plates of ribs. How can you even think about eating ice cream right now?”

He just smiled and looked at me through his thin-rimmed glasses. “There’s always room for ice cream.”

He ate a dish that night, and savored it just as much as he did any other. We laughed the entire time he ate it. And secretly, as stuffed as I was….I wished I had ordered one too.

As much as he loved Graeter’s, however, there was probably only one brand of ice cream that he ever liked more.

And that was the variety made at our family home.

It simply wasn’t summer in the Bradshaw house without homemade ice cream. My Grandpa Vern had started the tradition for as long as I had been alive, and he passed his recipe down through our family. If we had a family get-together in the summer, there was always homemade ice cream. Always. The inefficient homemade ice cream makers of the late 80’s and early 90’s took hours (if not days!) to churn a small cylinder of ice cream; but it was worth the wait for my Dad. He absolutely loved it.

Mostly, we ate the vanilla ice cream plain out of tall, Styrofoam cups. We eventually started adding fresh fruit as a topping. Strawberries, raspberries, blackberries, and blueberries were often nearby for those looking for flavor and feigned-nutrition. But the recipe never changed; nor did my Dad’s love for the homemade ice cream.

Dad eventually bought his own ice cream maker, and he made sure he got a model big enough to make huge helpings of homemade ice cream; mainly to ensure leftovers. When we had a family get together, Dad would also encourage my Grandpa and my Uncle Lee to bring their ice cream makers too, and we would have three machines churning all at once while we splashed around in the pool and waited impatiently for our sweet summer treat. Dad even perfected the leftover process of eating homemade ice cream. He found that putting the ice cream in the microwave for 23 seconds returned the frozen mass to its original consistency. We had huge batches of ice cream left over in most scenarios, but Dad never let a single drop go to waste. He often ate it straight from the leftover container in one delicious sitting.

Whether Flub’s or Graeter’s or Bradshaw brand, Dad always had a smile on his face when he was eating ice cream; and that’s how I’ll always remember him. Happy and content with something as simple as a dish of great ice cream.

I’m so glad that I had a Father who knew how to indulge and enjoy life when the moment was right. I’m glad I had a Father who could locate beauty in some of life’s simplest pleasures. Sure, he probably could have taught me the importance of moderation, which might have helped me avoid the cholesterol conversations that I’m already having with my doctor (I just tell them it’s hereditary, which technically isn’t a lie. It’s my Dad who taught me to eat this way). Instead, he taught me that there’s always room for flavor in life.

I miss my Dad every single day. The feelings of loss have yet to fade, and I doubt they ever will. But when I miss him most, I’m glad that he gave me a convenient excuse to remember him by indulging a bit. On those really hard days, I’ll find an excuse to go enjoy a helping of Dad’s favorite ice cream. It’s a wonderful coping mechanism (not according to the cholesterol doctor, but what does she know anyway…). Sometimes I’ll smile, and sometimes I’ll fight back a few tears. But every time, I remember my Dad and the smile on his face as he enjoyed a good scoop (or seven) or ice cream. I laugh at how he could always find room to power through a pint. And I strive to enjoy life just as much as he did.

The burden is heavy to live up to his standard, but darn it, I’ll sure try my best. It’s the least I can do for my Dad to play life by his rules. What a tasty journey it is!

Me Feeding Dad Ice Cream with SB LogoDad, I don’t know if I could ever relate how much you loved ice cream and how often you enjoyed eating it. I have so many wonderful memories of getting ice cream with you and Mom on those hot summer evenings as a kid growing up. You always gave our family so much to enjoy, and we’ve felt that absence in our heart ever since you left. I miss watching you find a huge chocolate chunk in your black raspberry chip and the exaggerated excitement as you compared it to the size of my head (which was either a testament to the chocolate or insult to my head size). I miss finding empty pints and spoons in the family room next to your chair. I miss those random moments when life would get me down and you would propose the solution of riding out to get an ice cream to make it all better—I wish I had taken you up on it more than I did. Dad, through ice cream and everything you ever did, you taught me to enjoy the beauty of life and all its offerings. I know that I often take life too seriously. I often get so busy and so distracted that I forget to appreciate every bite and every minute that this life has to offer. It always hits me hard when I think of your memory, and I realize in those moments how much I want to be like you. Thank you for giving me these reminders. It’s these little moments in the absence of your being here with us that have provided the most solace and refuge for my soul. Thanks for being a Dad full of love; for ice cream, yes, but mostly for your family. I have no doubt there’s Graeter’s in heaven, and I’m sure you’re still their best customer. Until we can enjoy a few more pints together, I’ll keep missing you here. But I’ll never, ever forget you. I love you, Dad. Seeya, bub.

“Even so, I have noticed one thing, at least, that is good. It is good for people to eat, drink, and enjoy their work under the sun during the short life God has given them, and to accept their lot in life.” Ecclesiastes 5:18 (NLT)

Olives

To say that my Dad was a terrible cook is a gracious understatement.

dad-turned-around-in-chair-with-sb-logoOf all the talents that God gave my Dad—and he gave him many—cooking was not one of them. As a youngster, my Dad often worked second or third shifts, which meant he would usually pick me up from A.M. kindergarten. We typically arrived home around noon, and I had always worked up a healthy appetite from all the finger painting and make-believing that had occurred that morning. After getting home, Dad would head into the kitchen to embark on a culinary expedition, perusing the items in the fridge and freezer, but always deciding on the same entrée for our lunch menu…

Corn dogs.

Yes, corn dogs. An American classic with all the nutritional value one can pack into cured and processed meat. Dipped in batter. Deep friend. Frozen. Packaged. Transported. Microwaved. And heartily consumed, usually covered in mustard.

Yes, corndogs are usually individually wrapped with heating instructions on each package, but even as a youngster part of me secretly worried that Dad was still going to burn them.

I once heard a rumor that he burned soup. I don’t even know how that happens, or whether or not it’s true. But if anyone could burn soup, I think my Dad was the guy to figure out how.

When he would grill burgers or hot dogs or steaks on our back patio, you had two temperature options to choose from: “well done” and “I didn’t know steaks could char that much”.

As I grew up, Dad’s cooking skills didn’t get any better, which was mostly a result of his not needing to know how. I rarely saw him in the kitchen, unless it was to reheat something my Mom had made us. Thankfully, for our entire family, my Mom has always been an outstanding cook—and I mean truly outstanding. I was fortunate enough that my corn dog lunches were always supplemented with something delicious on the dinner table made by my Mom each night. From lasagna and casseroles to childhood staples like burgers and tacos, Mom always knew how to satisfy our tastes. I hate meatloaf, but even her meatloaf is good (when she leaves the ketchup off, that is). Her desserts, especially the chocolate strawberry pie that Dad and I would devour together within hours of Mom cooking it, were next-level extraordinary. My Dad always made sure to tell me how smart he was for choosing a wife who was such a tremendous cook. I argued it was more lucky than smart, but it was probably a bit of both.

All of this created a bit of a problem, however, on the nights when Mom wasn’t home. There was always the rare occasion that Mom had to work late, or had plans to go out to dinner with friends or family, leaving her boys stranded and empty-stomached. Dad’s lack of cooking acumen left us only one real option. There’s a void that’s created when you love to eat but can’t cook that can only be solved with one solution—going out to eat. It usually didn’t take us long to decide…

“Hey boy, want to go get dinner at LaRosa’s?”

For those of you who aren’t fortunate enough to live in the dining mecca that is Southwestern Ohio, LaRosa’s is a Greater Cincinnati pizza chain of epic proportion. LaRosa’s has always been one of my favorite pizza spots, and my Dad felt the same way. Whenever he and I would grab dinner together, LaRosa’s was nearly always our first choice. We would slam back Cokes (his regular, mine diet), order calzones or pizzas and a salad, and enjoy a meal with one another. It was a tradition that I loved, and one that is desperately missing in my life after Dad.

As much as he loved the pizza and calzones, and as many Cokes as he might have drank, I think Dad’s favorite part of the meal was always the salad. Ironic coming from the man who based my entire childhood noontime diet on battered hot dogs on a stick, but yes, the salad was always his favorite. He told me time and time again over our dinners that his favorite salad was the one from LaRosa’s. A bed of green lettuce, shredded mozzarella cheese, diced tomatoes, red onion rings, olives (one black, one green), croutons, and dressing (Dad went with French, I usually went with Ranch). It was always a great combo to go along with a hot pizza.

larosas-salad

The salad was great, but I particularly disliked two of the ingredients: the tomatoes, and the olives. For as long as I can remember, I’ve never liked raw tomatoes. I don’t eat them on burgers, tacos, nachos, and the thought of ever eating a slice of tomato completely on its own makes me nauseas as I type. The tomatoes at LaRosa’s were particularly pesky because they were always diced. I always asked them to leave off the tomatoes, but if they forgot it would take me a good twenty minutes to pick them all out of my salad.

After the tomatoes, I always directed my scorn at the olives. Whether black or green, I showed no discrimination in my hatred and utter contempt for olives. I’ve tried them from time to time, and each time I attempt to stomach one, I am overcome by how such a little morsel can pack such an overwhelmingly disgusting flavor.

My Dad liked tomatoes, but he absolutely loved olives. Not just at LaRosa’s, but anywhere. If we were at a party with a vegetable tray, Dad could decimate a bowl of olives in just a few minutes. He would pop them like Skittles while I looked on with utter disdain. He would eat them at the house as a snack, which is shocking considering we had so many better snacks than that in our house for him to eat. When we ate together at Grecian Delight, one of our all-time favorite restaurants located in Middletown, Dad would savor the Greek olives that were in his salad, even with those annoying pits.

For Dad, olives were a precious treasure. The fact that he got not one but two on his salads at LaRosa’s made him almost giddy.

And thanks to his son’s hatred of those tiny morsels, Dad actually got four olives every time we went to LaRosa’s instead of two.

Whenever we went to LaRosa’s together, I always ordered my salads without tomatoes; but because the olives were easy enough to pick out of my salad without contaminating its overall flavor, I would always allow the servers to put the olives on my salad. Once they sat the bowls down on the table, my process was always the same—I would pluck the olives from my salad, put them on a plate, and slide them over to my Dad. He would always smile, offer a “Thanks, Bub”, and eat them with glee. I could see him eyeing them the second they sat my bowl down, and I would never disappoint him.

But sometimes, the smallest of vegetables (or are they fruits?) can cause a tremendous amount of pain.

One evening shortly after Dad’s death, Mom and I decided to get LaRosa’s takeout for dinner. We ordered our dinners, and I drove to the restaurant to pick them up. After returning home with boxes in hand, we set the table with our meals in the bright, windowed sunroom of our family home. We had done this so many times before, but this particular time there was a noticeable and looming absent place setting at the table next to me. That table felt vacant and empty, but I was afraid to say anything to my Mom about how I was feeling for fear that I might upset her.

Mom and I sat down together, justifiably more quiet than we typically were, as this was one of our first meals alone together without Dad. We were trying to preserve any semblance of normalcy that we could in a new world for us that felt so different and so much emptier than it had been.

I sat down to eat my meal, opening boxes and taking off container lids. I moved from my calzone to my salad, and after opening the lid and shaking up my dressing, I did something I had done during so many meals before.

I picked out the olives, put them on a plate, and instinctively pushed them away from me towards the spot where my Dad always sat.

I didn’t even realize what I was doing in that moment. I was so used to removing the olives and giving them to Dad that my body had trained itself to do this involuntarily, even when he wasn’t there to take them.

Immediately, a flood of emotion overcame me—intense and uncontrollable. I felt a wave of tears overtaking me, and before I knew it, my head fell into my hands and it took everything in me to not collapse in my seat. I broke down at the table, sobbing, with two small olives sitting on a plate in front of me.

Without hesitation, Mom got up from her seat and made her way over to me. I didn’t even have to say a word. She knew right away what was going on. She knew that for years I had always passed my olives to Dad, and now I would never be able to do that again. Mom, crying along with her son, put her arm around me and just said “I know how much you miss him, Ty. I miss him, too.”

I couldn’t stop the crying, all because of two seemingly inconspicuous olives.

Although my response isn’t as intense, I still think of my Dad every time I pick those olives out of my salad. I don’t break down and cry each time, but I still think about him and long for the days when I could pass them over to him. Now, I try to order my salad without the olives to avoid some of the pain, but I still think of him each time I go to LaRosa’s. Because it was such a special place for the two of us, I just can’t envision a day where I’ll ever go to LaRosa’s without thinking of my Dad.

But olives aren’t the only foods that make me think of him—there are so many more. I can’t eat a corn dog without thinking of a simpler life that existed when I was much younger and my Dad was an invincible hero. Even a kid gets tired of eating corn dogs, but I wish I could go back and live in those days forever.

Whenever I make a bag of popcorn, I’m reminded of him. It was his late-night snack of choice, and the smell that invades my house from the microwave makes me remember him. I’ve never been a big fan of popcorn, but every now and then I will make a bag at home and eat a few kernels just to remember him.

We used to fight over pints of Graeter’s black raspberry chip ice cream in the freezer. On occasion, Mom would splurge and buy us each a pint, which would last any normal person a week or so if they ate an appropriate serving each night. It was a miracle if our pints survived for 24 hours. If I was feeling particularly pesky, I would stake my claim by digging my spoon into his pint before he could get to it. It was a solid attack because Dad was such a germophobe that he would never think about eating a pint of ice cream that I had defiled—even if it was Graeter’s.

Now, I get all the pints of ice cream to myself—but I would give anything to have to share them with him once again.

The death of a loved one creates a weird phenomenon where the most seemingly insignificant aspects of life and our relationship take on an entirely new meaning. Mundane things, like olives in a salad, become symbols and reminders of the love we’ve lost and the pain we experience. But for me, those olives have also become subtle reminders that I had an amazing Father who made a tremendous impact on me for the 26 years we spent on this earth together. Whether it’s olives or popcorn, corn dogs or ice cream, I’ve found ways to cherish the positive memories associated with those foods. And the progress I’ve made from tears to treasured memories is evidence that God works in all things—even if it’s something as seemingly regular as the food we eat. I’ve always associated food with great memories, and God knows me better than anyone. I’m amazed at how He has been able to comfort me when something as insignificant as an olive causes my emotions to overtake me. And I’m reminded of this profound truth: If He cares about me in a moment as mundane as a meal, then I have to believe He cares about the big challenges of life without my Dad just as much.

Dad and I always enjoyed our meals together, and now I have to enjoy them differently while remembering all of the great ones we shared together. There are nights when I eat alone, and I’ll often look across the table and see my Dad smiling there after a hard day’s work. I’ll see him pouring a Coke (or two) into his glass of ice. I’ll see him smiling and laughing about something I said. I’ll see him thoroughly enjoying the food he’s eating, but even more I’ll see him cherishing the people he’s eating with. I’ll look across that empty table, and every now and then I can picture him popping an olive into his mouth—and I smile. I’ve still never acquired his taste for olives, and I don’t think I ever will. But I have learned to be grateful for all of the wonderful meals we shared together, and I’ve accepted the fact that olive-induced tears are my way of saying how much I miss my Dad.

Dad, I’m grateful that you always made it a priority to share a meal together. A weeknight dinner at LaRosa’s just isn’t the same without you. Every time I go to Graeter’s for a dip of black raspberry chip, which is way more often than I should, I think of you. Certain foods make me miss you tremendously, and the heartache of losing you so unexpectedly is sometimes too much for me to take. But you taught me to enjoy good food and good company. You taught me to share a meal with the people I love whenever I had the chance, and your inspiration continues to guide my life each and every day. You taught me that life is never too busy for a pizza and a fun night together. I’m looking forward to the day when I can pass my olives across the table to you once again. Until then, seeya Bub.

“Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me.” Revelation 3:20 (NIV)