Note to self: garlic toast and raspberry jam do not go together - today's Moment of Dad

Today's "moment of Dad" is all about garlic toast.

I think I explained it in a previous entry...Dad LOVED toast.

And when I say LOVED, I mean if one of us were kidnapped, and Dad was faced with the choice of his loving family or a big ol' stack of toast with butter on it, he'd be hard pressed to make a decision.

If Dad could have reformulated the food pyramid, here is how it would be. (and BTW, no peanut butter for Dad...he HATED it. That's tomorrow's entry anyway...)




I think you get the picture, right? (and BTW, Dad DID eat balanced meals, but I know from experience that these foods were part of his personal food pyramid so just get unhealthy thoughts out of your minds, now.)

Anyway...Dad also loved Mom's spaghetti and sauce. Ruth and I usually liked butter and salt on ours (I liked Parmesan cheese too, and nobody else did so it was all mine...BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAH...oops...sorry), but Dad went for the whole thing...sauce, sauce, sauce.

Oh yeah. And toast. Apparently, not enough carbs in the meal, but that's back in the old days when we thought carbs were OK.

So as a special treat, Ruthi and I nagged Mom into making garlic toast. We LOVED garlic toast and garlic bread. So thanks to the pressure of her two SWEET girls, she made garlic toast for us.

One thing about my dad...Mom would have to call for him at least once to get in and clean up for dinner. It never failed. Even when he was in the livingroom, she'd have to practically use a shoehorn to get him out of his chair...he'd be absorbed in the news or the book he was reading.

Anyway, Dad came into the kitchen, sat down and said,"Oh good...I love your spaghetti and sauce. And you made TOAST!" Dad's eyes shone like two nickels, and reached for the first piece of toast and his ever-present jar of black raspberry jam.

All three of us started up...

"Dad...that's not regular toast."

"Daddy, uh...don't do that."

"John, don't put jam on the toast, it's not that kind of toast."

Now Dad had put up with at least 15 years (or so) of women telling him what to do. Apparently, we had stepped into the forbidden zone of Dad and his toast. That's kind of like the line I use: "Don't get between the fat girl and the buffet." NOBODY told Dad what to do with his toast, damnit. That's like pulling the mask off the Lone Ranger. (Could I use any more cliches? Yeah, but I don't want to.)

He straightened up and declared, "Dammit, you three...you tell me what to do and not to do all the time. It's bad enough you elbow me in church, Mary. But THIS is the last straw. Toast is toast, and nobody's gonna tell me any different. Now PASS THE DAMN JAM!" He leaned back into his chair, satisfied that he had laid down the law in his own house for once.

Meekly, one of us slid over the sacred black raspberry jam jar over, and he proceeded to - yes - spread the jam on the garlic toast.

Finally, when there was enough jam to suit him, he raised it up to his mouth and took a bite.

I have no other way to describe his facial expression other than his face practically turned inside out. His eyes had a horrified sheen, and you could tell that he wanted to gargle with bleach to get the taste out. His lips quivered, his forehead was wrinkled, and he said this:

"What the hell are you trying to do, KILL ME??????"

All three of us said, "We tried to warn you. You didn't listen."

He said, "Well, what kind of person puts garlic on toast?"

So we never had it in our house again.

And for a long time afterwards, Dad made sure to ask if the toast was regular or that "damned stuff we tried to kill him with."

Yep - dinner at the Dawsons.

So endeth today's Moment of Dad.