My Fat Dad

by Dawn Lerman

  “With all these people, why did you ask to talk to me?”

  “Because,” he answered, smirking, “you were already on the ground, but mostly because you looked like you needed someone to ask you how your day was. My name is Jim. May I have the pleasure of knowing yours? Or if you don’t want to tell me, I can just call you Gimpy. Ah, now that is a nice smile.”

  I wondered why this man didn’t have a cup to collect coins and how he knew so many things about my life. “I bet you love poetry,” he said, “and I would bet this whole stack of books that you are a straight-A student. And you know what, I bet, people probably think you are a very good listener.”

  Jim seemed to know things about me, deep things, dark things—things that I never shared with anyone. He was like a guardian angel in one of those Christmas stories—here on earth to save me. I tried to sway the conversation away from me, to him. I kept doing a double take to see if he was real or if I had just imagined this whole strange scenario. Maybe I hit my head when I fell. But there he was next to me, and the way the rough New York City ground had felt against my body, it was surely real.

  “Are you homeless?” I finally blurted.

  “Yes. I am,” he replied without hesitation.

  “But why? Don’t you have any family?”

  “It’s a complicated story.”

  “Please tell me.” I’m not quite sure why I was so interested, but in that moment I was desperate to know what had happened to this man to get him to where he was today.

  “There is no easy explanation, and it is not a story I am proud of.”

  “Please,” I begged.

  “If you’re really sure . . .”

  “I’m sure,” I said, sitting a little closer.

  “I used to be a psychotherapist. For twenty years, I had my own practice on the Upper East Side. Life was great. I had a wife, a child, a nice apartment, an impressive address—I thought I had it all. Life was going according to plan until the day I received a phone call from the police.

  “‘There was a tragedy,’ they said. ‘Your wife . . .’

  “In the time it took for that impersonal sentence to be spoken by that cop, my world just stopped—unraveled in front of me—and there was no coming back. I tried support groups, consulted with other doctors, even started going to church, but nothing worked.”

  Perhaps his story would have made me suspicious, since it was pretty unbelievable. How could someone who counseled people for a living not be able to help himself? But I saw truth in the way he relayed the story and the intense look of sadness that washed over his otherwise friendly face.

  “After losing my wife, I could no longer think clearly. Every time I went to that window, the pain was unbearable. I couldn’t concentrate; I began drinking excessively to try to drown the guilt. My son blamed me for his mother’s suicide and completely cut me off, not even permitting me to see my first grandson. But even if I could get dressed and make it to my office sober, I no longer had any desire or belief in myself or my abilities. How could I help my clients if I could not save my own wife? I had known she was in pain and I turned my back on her. Everything I lived for was now gone. I’ve been on the streets ever since, just studying people. I share with them my sketches, my poems, my thoughts, and maybe a cup of coffee. But I never ask for charity or pity.”

  “How do you eat?”

  “That is not for you to worry about.”

  I offered him a roast beef and cheese sandwich or a slice of warm apple pie from the Horn & Hardart automat down the street, but he declined. What could I say to this increasingly puzzling man who made me think about things in a different way than I’d ever thought before? When it started getting dark, he ordered me to go home, thanking me for talking to him, but reprimanding me for being so trusting.

  I made sure from then on to walk down this stretch of Third Avenue every day after school, just hoping to see Jim. We became friends, real friends, even best friends. We talked about everything. Some of our conversations touched on issues that I wouldn’t normally discuss with my schoolmates, most of whom I had distanced myself from in recent months. They didn’t understand me. When I was with kids at school, I felt like I had to pretend to care about the things they cared about—mostly boys and clothes. But my life wasn’t that simple, and the things that concerned me were different. Kids my own age made me feel like there was something wrong with me, but around Jim, I felt normal, smart—maybe even a little bit special.

  On one of our visits, I brought Jim a bag of my homemade banana oatmeal cookies. He would never let me buy him anything, and my dad had forgotten the bag on the counter, so I hoped Jim would enjoy them. After taking a bite, Jim looked at me and said my cookie had transformed his world, and my parents were so lucky to have a daughter who was such a good cook. It was one of the first times in my life that I ever cried in front of someone other than a family member.

  Jim was incredibly kind and became something of a father figure to me since my own father was usually unavailable. He also adored my recipes, appreciating the addition of chopped apples in the potato pancakes that I brought him over the holidays.

  Once, when my father was traveling and the temperatures were becoming frigid, I even let Jim stay at our house for a little while. It took a lot of persuading, but finally he agreed to accept my offer. I gave him some of my father’s skinny clothes. My dad had the most unbelievable collection of shirts in different sizes. No matter how much weight he lost or gained, he always was prepared. The shirts lined the walls of our brownstone like artwork on other people’s walls. I didn’t think my dad would mind if a couple of shirts went missing.

  In addition to giving him my dad’s clothes, I made Jim nice dinners, and he showed me how to chop onions without getting tears in my eyes by chilling them in the freezer for fifteen minutes before cutting. He also insisted on making me his favorite meal—Sunday Gravy.

  “Sunday sauce is as important to Italian families as chicken soup is to Jewish families. It requires the perfect combination of fresh tomatoes, basil, red pepper flakes, sugar, and garlic. You can add whatever meats you want. Every Sunday, my wife and I made this together when my son was little. He would sit beside us reading the comics, noticing how the air became humid and sweet no matter how cold life was outside. I thought we had achieved the American Dream and we could withstand whatever life threw our way. I have not made this gravy since my wife died. I thank you for allowing me to make it for you.”

  I wanted to throw my arms around Jim and tell him to adopt me; that way we could both fill the void that was such a big part of each of us. But then my dad called with a surprise that his business trip was being cut short and he was coming home early. “Guess what?” he said. “I won the Peugeot account for the new ad agency that I am launching—Lerman and Van Leeuwen. I am going to be in Who’s Who in America and so are you.” I wanted to be excited. He was even bringing home the thick hardcover book that would mention that he had two daughters.

  I looked at Jim, feeling guilty turning him back onto the streets, telling him I would visit him on a regular basis. He mysteriously said, “You won’t find me on the corner anymore.” He thanked me for our time together, saying he would never forget me.

  I begged him to make a plan with me, to have a once-a-week place to meet for hot cocoa. But Jim refused. “I have a lot to make right in my own life. And you are at the beginning of a wonderful journey. Remember there is no such thing as chance encounters. It is what you do with life’s chances that determine your happiness. I will always keep you with me right here,” he said, pointing to his heart.

  For weeks, I tried to find Jim, but he was nowhere to be found. I became fascinated by the fact that if one person could hear your story with an open heart, the outcome of your story might change. I heard Jim’s story and he heard mine. With compassion and a little encouragement, he was able to move on, and so was I.

/>   However, the school was concerned and called me in for an emergency meeting after I had shared my story with Sarah, who told her mom, who told the principal, who told the therapist.

  Sunday Gravy with Meatballs

  Yield: 6 servings

  FOR THE MEATBALLS:

  4 tablespoons butter or extra virgin olive oil

  1 small white onion, minced

  2 garlic cloves, peeled and chopped

  1⁄2 pound ground beef

  1⁄2 pound ground veal

  1⁄2 pound ground pork

  1⁄2 cup bread crumbs

  1⁄4 cup grated Pecorino Romano cheese

  6 sprigs Italian parsley, chopped fine

  Salt and pepper, to taste

  2 eggs, beaten

  FOR THE SUNDAY GRAVY:

  1⁄3 cup olive oil or butter

  4 garlic cloves, peeled and chopped

  2 (6-ounce) cans tomato paste

  3 cups water (plus additional, as needed, for thinning)

  1⁄2 cup red wine

  1 teaspoon sugar

  2 (28-ounce) cans peeled tomatoes, smashed

  5 sprigs fresh oregano

  Bay leaf

  1 teaspoon salt

  4 whole basil leaves, coarsely chopped

  1⁄4 cup parsley

  Pinch of crushed red pepper flakes

  1 pound beef stew meat

  1⁄4 teaspoon baking soda

  To make the meatballs: Place 2 tablespoons of the butter in a skillet over medium heat. Sauté the onion and garlic for 3 minutes, or until the onion is translucent. Set aside and allow to cool. In a large bowl, mix together the three meats with the bread crumbs, cheese, the cooled onion and garlic, the parsley, salt and pepper, and eggs. Shape the mixture into medium-sized ovals. You should end up with about 12 meatballs. Brown the meatballs in the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter and set a side. They only need to be about 80 percent cooked as they will cook later in the gravy.

  To make the Sunday Gravy: Place 1 tablespoon of the olive oil in a very large, heavy-bottomed saucepan over medium heat. Sauté the garlic for about 1 minute or until slightly golden and then add the tomato paste and fry it with the garlic for 5 minutes, or until the paste is bubbling, constantly stirring so as not to burn it. Stir in the water, wine, and sugar and allow to simmer for 20 minutes, or until thick. Add the smashed tomatoes, the oregano, bay leaf, salt, basil, parsley, and red pepper flakes. Bring to a boil then lower the heat so that the sauce barely simmers.

  Place a wooden spoon under the cover to keep the pot partially opened. While the sauce cooks, place the rest of the oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat and begin to brown the meat and add to the sauce, then add the meatballs. Make sure the meat is completely covered by the sauce and continue to cook for 45 minutes, stirring periodically, always careful not to break the meatballs. You might need to add a little more water if your gravy is too thick. Add the baking soda and simmer for 15 more minutes. When the sauce is ready, skim the excess oil from the top. Serve over pasta of choice.

  Oatmeal Raisin Cookies

  Yield: 26 medium cookies

  Parchment paper for lining the baking sheets

  21⁄2 cups old-fashioned rolled oats

  1⁄2 teaspoon salt

  1⁄4 teaspoon baking soda

  1⁄2 teaspoon ground cinnamon or pumpkin spice

  3 large very ripe bananas, mashed to creamy consistency (if they are small add another half banana)

  6 ounces applesauce or pumpkin puree, fresh or unsweetened, canned

  3 tablespoons melted butter or oil

  1 teaspoon vanilla

  1⁄3 cup maple syrup

  1⁄3 cup raisins

  Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper. In a large bowl, whisk together the oats, salt, baking soda, and cinnamon. Set aside. In a medium bowl, mix together the mashed bananas, applesauce, and melted butter vanilla, and syrup until thoroughly combined. Pour the wet mixture into the bowl with the dry ingredients and combine until well blended. Dough will be firm. Stir in the raisins until evenly distributed throughout the dough.

  Use a small ice cream scoop or tablespoon to measure the dough, and then roll it into balls with the palms of your hands and place them on the prepared baking sheets. Flatten the dough balls with your hands. Bake for 10 minutes, or until lightly browned. Do not let bottoms get too dark. Remove from oven. Allow to cool before removing from the baking sheets with spatula.

  Note: Feel free to personalize these cookies. Add cranberries or chocolate chips instead of raisins. The riper the banana, the sweeter and moister your cookies will be.

  14

  Olga’s Lunch Room

  Beef Goulash, Olga’s Creamy Banana Pudding with Nilla Wafers

  A year earlier, when it was time for middle school, my mom had transferred me from my downtown hippie school, the Little Red School House, to a preppy uniformed school, Lenox on the Upper East Side. My sister had already been there since kindergarten. My mom loved the fact that she did not have to worry about what we were going to wear in the morning. Everyone wore the same navy-blue jumpers, white shirts with Peter Pan collars, blue kneesocks, and penny loafers with real pennies wedged into the front for good luck.

  My mother was initially worried that Lenox would be too academically challenging for me, but it was just too inconvenient having kids in different schools on opposite ends of the city. Having us in the same school provided for easier mornings and less rushed afternoons. April and I could travel together to and from school; it would help my mom a lot, and she knew I would not mind, and even if I did, it was not really up for discussion.

  Every morning, I would be in charge of dressing April and making breakfast for the two of us before we rushed to the bus to head uptown. I would normally prepare something hearty and warm, like eggs in a hole with star-shaped eyes, or Cream of Wheat, a little bit lumpy, with maple syrup and raisins. I would let my sister make a menu for the week, and I would do my best to wake up early enough to cook, knowing that breakfast was the most important meal of the day.

  Our mornings, although hectic, became my favorite part of the day. April would have me review her homework as she spoke in pig Latin, filling me in on all the second-grade gossip, like who was best friends with who, who was reading chapter books, who picked their nose, and who could do a cartwheel with their legs straight. But when my sister was cast in the First National Tour of Annie, our routine, which I cherished, came to an end, and cooking breakfast for myself just made me feel miserable. I couldn’t wait to escape and get to school. I was usually the first one to arrive and the last one to leave. Some days, I would arrive as early as seven o’clock, when school did not officially start until eight-fifteen.

  Walking through the big red doors of the school, I felt at home as the classical music played and the smells of Olga’s home-cooked food—especially her Parker House Rolls—wafted through the halls. After saying hi to the early bird teachers, my first official stop was always to the kitchen to visit Olga, the lunchroom lady. Olga would say in her welcoming thick, broken German accent, “You want a Yumbo?” I would just grin and Olga would assemble her famous breakfast sandwich—two scrambled eggs with grilled tomatoes and melted cheese on a homemade biscuit. While I ate, she would pour me some fresh orange juice and tell me this was our little secret. “You can’t come every day for breakfast.”

  “I know,” I always said. But each morning, I appeared, and each morning she fed me.

  Since the school was so small, just twelve kids in a grade, it felt like being part of a big family. The teachers knew each and every student very well and were extremely involved in their social and emotional growth. Olga, with her stiff auburn hair that was hidden in a hair net and her crisp pressed polyester uniform, was no exception. Olga didn’t place a lot of emphasis on the way
she looked. Her husband had passed, her kids were grown, and she felt like she was past her dating prime. Olga completely and passionately devoted all her efforts to her job—noting that all the kids at the school were like her grandchildren, so she prepared everything with care and love. Many of her friends who worked at other schools would take shortcuts, but not Olga; she sliced, seasoned, and baked and ensured that everything that was served in our school cafeteria was made from scratch. In addition to cooking, she made it her business to know every child’s name, what the child ate, and what the child did not eat. If you did not like the main entrée, which changed daily—Chicken Chow Mein, Salisbury Steak, Turkey Tetrazzini—there was always Olga’s special egg salad with onions or macaroni salad with lots of mayonnaise. Her biggest pleasure in life was watching us enjoy her food. “You like?” she would say if we came for another helping. When we did not come to the lunchroom with an appetite, or we had too much of an appetite, she always knew something was wrong.

  After school, all the kids loved to visit Olga. She always had Scooter Pies, Triscuit crackers, and crisp McIntosh apples without a single bruise. I loved watching her write up the lunch menu for the week, bragging in her thick accent about all the kids she’d fed over the years. “They always come back for a bowl of Olga’s banana pudding.” I would follow her from sink to stove, watching her make the custard and arrange the Nilla wafers. I was amazed at how many recipes she could prepare at one time.

  There were always lots of pots and pans, bowls, blenders, and spices set up in a perfect line on her stove and countertops. Olga’s kitchen was a place of order with the bubbling pots of Bolognese, rice, and goulashes all simmering in unison. Olga had no trouble creating several entrées and desserts while handing out snacks and hearing everyone’s saga. Many of the girls confided in her about crushes, diets, or how unfair their parents were, and the obvious lack of boys, since the school had been all girls until recently. Everyone seemed to love Olga; even the awkward boys seemed to flock around her.