“Nothin’ like toaster strudel,” my father said almost every morning. “’Specially the strawberry one.”
He would make them before I left for school, dropping two slices in the toaster, watching they browned properly. When they popped up, he’d put them on a paper plate next to the toaster and carefully inscribe the pieces with a saying for the day with a cake decorator. He would not use the small packet of strudel topping that came in the package. “You can’t write with that stuff,” he’d claim.
I’d sit at the kitchen table sipping an orange juice while he wrote. He never used notes, though maybe he had memorized the saying.
“Here’s some advice,” he’d say, placing the toaster strudel in front me. The saying that day was “If you are lucky, you won’t believe in luck” – Nick Rodelo.
“Who is Nick Rodelo?” I asked after reading my strudel.
“I think he’s a musician,” my father said. “Or maybe a gambler,” he added, laughing. “Eat, you don’t want to be late for school.”
My mother worked four to midnight at the hospital, so I rarely saw her until the weekends. As far as I knew my father didn’t work, since he was always there to see me off to school and welcome me home. When I asked him if he had a job, he’s say, “Sure, I do this and that.” He must have done those things on the weekend, when he was usually gone.
I thought my father was an artist; his toaster strudel printing was so beautiful. Each letter clear and perfectly formed. Weekend breakfasts were different. Sometimes my mother made them, usually pancakes or eggs, served in silence to my father and me, while she drank coffee. There was never strudel on the weekends, until yesterday, Sunday, when my father was in the kitchen.
He said, “Your mom is sleeping.” He put the strudel, blueberry I think, into the toaster. The saying was: Wasting time is not a waste of time – Henry G. Bossman. When I finished, he said “We’re going to the zoo.” We spent most of the day there and laughed a lot.
At home, my mother was reading in the living room. I heard my father and mother in the kitchen, and when he came out he looked sad. “I’m going out for a while; be a good boy for your mother.” He turned quickly and was gone before I could say anything.
The next morning in the kitchen, my mother removed two slices of toaster strudel from the microwave.
“Where’s Dad?”
“He made these for you before he left,” she said, placing the plate in front of me. They were strawberry, topped with the saying: In the book of life, the answers aren’t in the back – Charlie Brown.
He would make them before I left for school, dropping two slices in the toaster, watching they browned properly. When they popped up, he’d put them on a paper plate next to the toaster and carefully inscribe the pieces with a saying for the day with a cake decorator. He would not use the small packet of strudel topping that came in the package. “You can’t write with that stuff,” he’d claim.
I’d sit at the kitchen table sipping an orange juice while he wrote. He never used notes, though maybe he had memorized the saying.
“Here’s some advice,” he’d say, placing the toaster strudel in front me. The saying that day was “If you are lucky, you won’t believe in luck” – Nick Rodelo.
“Who is Nick Rodelo?” I asked after reading my strudel.
“I think he’s a musician,” my father said. “Or maybe a gambler,” he added, laughing. “Eat, you don’t want to be late for school.”
My mother worked four to midnight at the hospital, so I rarely saw her until the weekends. As far as I knew my father didn’t work, since he was always there to see me off to school and welcome me home. When I asked him if he had a job, he’s say, “Sure, I do this and that.” He must have done those things on the weekend, when he was usually gone.
I thought my father was an artist; his toaster strudel printing was so beautiful. Each letter clear and perfectly formed. Weekend breakfasts were different. Sometimes my mother made them, usually pancakes or eggs, served in silence to my father and me, while she drank coffee. There was never strudel on the weekends, until yesterday, Sunday, when my father was in the kitchen.
He said, “Your mom is sleeping.” He put the strudel, blueberry I think, into the toaster. The saying was: Wasting time is not a waste of time – Henry G. Bossman. When I finished, he said “We’re going to the zoo.” We spent most of the day there and laughed a lot.
At home, my mother was reading in the living room. I heard my father and mother in the kitchen, and when he came out he looked sad. “I’m going out for a while; be a good boy for your mother.” He turned quickly and was gone before I could say anything.
The next morning in the kitchen, my mother removed two slices of toaster strudel from the microwave.
“Where’s Dad?”
“He made these for you before he left,” she said, placing the plate in front of me. They were strawberry, topped with the saying: In the book of life, the answers aren’t in the back – Charlie Brown.
