potato salad memories

On Saturday, I did a performance piece at a literary salon and another writer asked me why I write. I was stumped and gave my generic answer: I write because I have to. But the question lingered in my mind.

Even though it is Memorial Day, I woke up at 5 am as usual. I gave Frodo his joint medicine, then fed and walked him and Chewbacca. On the walk around the block, I started thinking about my dad. Wishing he was here. And I had an epiphany (I seem to have had a lot of those lately).

The epiphany started with me remembering growing up in our house on Glenn Street in Ontario. Dad would barbecue every Memorial Day. Big thick steaks. And Dad would always make his famous mayo, mustard, pickle, egg, onion and black olive potato salad (with a small no onion bowl for our little sister Annie because she hated onions).

My sisters and I would lay by the pool all day slathered in baby oil. Me and Jackie would race laps in the pool. Annie would sit on the steps calling the winner. The boom box would blare out The Go-Go’s, Oliva Newton-John and Pat Benetar. Mom would be lingering around eating early because she usually had to waitress that night.

Dad’s friends would come over. The neighbor Gene from next door along with my dad’s red haired work colleague Johnny (who my mom hated because he and Dad always drank too much together). Typically, with or without Johnny there, Dad would drink too many Budweisers. But with Johnny there, Dad’s usual six or seven would turn into a twelve pack or maybe even a case.

Mom would be pissed off when she left for work. But drunk or sober, Dad could cook a mean steak and Jackie, Annie and I would guzzle down grape Shasta and yell at each other to pass the A-1 steak sauce. Sometimes we only had Heinz 57 or Worcestershire sauce (which Dad preferred) and we would moan, “Dad, you know we like A-1.”

Those memories are so vivid I can almost taste the T-bone steaks. And man, Dad’s potato salad was epic. While making it, Dad would wink at me and say, “The secret is the pickle juice Jenny”. My sisters and I would groan as we watched him drink the rest of the jar after splashing some on the mayo.

But you know what? Dad was right. I tried to make his potato salad this morning and it didn’t taste right until I added about a quarter cup of pickle juice. I couldn’t bring myself to drink the leftover pickle juice.

So Dad, if you’re looking down, listening or reading this in the great beyond, just know that I will think of you with every bite I take of my potato salad. And I may not have a kid to pass your recipe on to, but I have my book to be and this blog. The best part is that today I figured out why I write. Dad, you are the reason I write. It’s to hear your voice and to try and capture the memories of when you were here with me, Mom, Jackie and Annie.

Maybe I should rename my memoir “Potato Salad Memories”?