Father’s Day is a glorious day for me as I really do celebrate the love I have for my kids. My daughter just turned 20 and my son is the classic 16 year old teen age boy. (NO WAY Zman, you’re WAY to youthful to have kids that age – yeah, I know, I hear it all the time.) We’re very close and hearing the words, “Happy Father’s Day” the first thing in the morning, is all I need to make me smile.
But the question I always have is… How come Father’s Day, in NO Way gets the attention, adulation, and fanfare that Mother’s Day does? Mom gets flowers and cards, an expensive brunch at the fancy buffet joint, or a great family dinner at her favorite place. It is her most special day as the queen basks in the glory of her motherhood. Dad’s on the other hand just get that morning “Happy Father’s Day”, then it business as usual, doing back breaking yard work on a hot June Sunday afternoon, as I did yesterday, replanting bushes. Joy. Five straight hours of digging a trench with more friggin. boulders than all of Colorado.
And of course, dad’s don’t get taken to their favorite joint, no, uh-uh. (Well if I did, it would be huge steaks, martinis and baseball bat sized cigars that would cost the wife a mortgage payment.) So, dads like me, all across the U.S. of A., barbecue for the family, which of course is more work after a day filled with knuckle-crunching hard work.
Ah, who am I kidding, I love to barbecue for the family on Father’s Day, choosing what I want to make, without being concerned about health and safety. What that means is that some kind of animal carcass will be gutted and served, along with a mayonnaise laden salad, corn on the cob, and ice cold beer, the brew of daddy’s choice. (And today is Moretti, an Italian import that is loaded with flavor, holding up to the big n’ meaty Zman-b-que.) Also note that I grill my corn – not in the husks or in foil, but right on the hot open grill plate, first slathered with butter, garlic powder, salt and pepper, until it gets brown and crispy on the outside, while juicy and sweet on the inside. Food Nazi’s and calorie counting weenies need not apply.
Quite fortunately, Father’s Day is a glorious day for me as I really do celebrate the love I have for my dad, who is 77, alive and kicking. My parents live only 20 minutes away and having them over is nice, as they give the kids money and tell many of the same stories that have been shared dozens of time before. Now my dad and I are close, and always have been. And while he’s still got most of his marbles left, he is a certified wacko, getting weirder and more bizarre with each passing year. It’s those classic, “crazy old bastard” idiosyncrasies” that make me pray I don’t get all nutty in my elder years (Too late, I’m sure many would say.”) Dad just loves, I mean totally gets off on cursing out other drivers. You can’t go half a mile with six guys being called mother f@#%ers, c@#k s#$&@&s, or having them being told where to place certain appendages into a particular rear functioning cavity. About a month ago I bet the old man that we couldn’t drive a half an hour with at least three unsuspecting fellow drivers being scorned and verbally violated by my cursing, ex-sailor of a dad. And sure enough, out of pure instinct and nothing more, dad hit three on the nose. While trying so hard to hold back his litany of colorful language, pops just could not stop himself from letting three different drivers know what they should eat and where they should go.
Now, the good thing is, my dad loves premium cigars and after every Father’s Day meal, we head to the porch to share a smoke with stories new and old. My pop loves maduro, and I hand him a JR Ultimate Principale, a luscious medium-bodied Honduran-born stick with a mountain of flavor. I opt for the Camacho Corojo, a full-bodied blast of Jalapa Valley tobacco goodness. So as we snip our sticks and are about to light, dad takes a small spray bottle out of a bag and starts coating himself with a liquid he swears keeps the bugs away. I furrow my eyebrows as a pungent stink crawls up my nose, as he tells me, “It’s vinegar, son, it works like magic and you won’t even smell it!”
“Won’t even smell it? Dad, you stink like a goddamned Greek salad, you old coot! Want me to put out a plate of feta cheese for you”
“Oh, it’s not that bad,” he tried with a feeble attempt to convince me, “and I never get bit.”
“Of course not, “I said in agreement, “what living creature will come within 25 feet of you? By the way, I’ve got a bottle of Wishbone Italian in the fridge if you want me to do your back.”
Somehow I managed through the smell as the two of us bonded and smoked those beautious handrolled treasures. It was another wonderful Father’s Day for me, as I can’t help but thank my maker for all the goodness I truly do have in my life.
Please Note – That’s NOT my dad in the picture, but he is crazy looking and I thought it fit nice for the story.
Hope all you dads got to enjoy as well. Til next week,
Tommy Z . JR Cigars Blog With the Zman