Prime Rib Dinner with Dad

 “Fortunately [psycho] analysis is not the only way to resolve inner conflicts. Life itself still remains a very effective therapist.”

--Karen Horney

Jeremy, the boys and I went to dinner with my parents the other night. Friday night. The day Austin came home. The excitement had died down and everyone had gone, including my brother, and we realized we were all starving. We went up the street to a family restaurant. Steaks, burgers, pasta. Coffee refills from a glass pot. Lots of families. Lots of cute older couples. It was almost 7 o’clock and we were seated right away. My dad and I both ordered coffee, cream, real sugar, while we looked over the menus.

The boys ordered pizza and fries. Jeremy got some sort of pasta with absolutely NO vegetables of ANY kind…and a salad (??). Dad and Roxy both decided on prime rib. I’d never ordered prime rib. Like, Prime Rib Dinner, prime rib. I’ve eaten it. I like it. It’s just not something I think to order in a restaurant. But, that night, it sounded good.

When it got to the table I realized that because I had never ordered prime rib at a restaurant, I also had no idea what the extra stuff on the plate was. Not wanting to sound silly, I quietly pointed to it, shrugged my shoulders and whispered “what is this?” to my dad. It was horseradish. He didn’t look at me like it was a stupid question. He just whispered the answer.

The next thing I realized was that I had no idea exactly what to do with the horseradish. Not wanting to make a big deal about it, I just kind of watched, out of the corner of my eye, my dad prepare to eat his prime rib.

You have to understand that my father is an adorable eater. I mean that in the manliest way possible, I swear. But, really, it’s down-right cute how he is about food. He’s not a picky eater. He likes everything. Home-cooked, professionally prepared, comfort, gourmet, spicy, sweet, fried, sautéed, barbequed, ethnic, locally grown and operated. He is very particular about the way he eats things, though. He has a routine when it comes to food. Don’t get me wrong, he’s not like an A & E episode of Obsessed waiting to happen or anything, but he prefers to eat things exactly in the way he believes they were meant to be eaten. In the way they were meant to be truly enjoyed. I’ve always liked eating meals with my dad. He appreciates food. You also have to understand that we didn’t always get to eat a lot of meals together.  We lived in separate cities for most of my childhood. He drank a lot. We weren’t that close when I was a kid.   

I spent some years being bitter about that. Bitter that I didn’t have a relationship with him. Upset because things like pride and alcohol and distance had gotten in the way of us being close. Convinced that I would never have the kind of connection with my dad I believed I needed.

Then, ten years ago today, something happened.

It happened inside of him, a stirring only he knows by name, and he got sober. I’m not going to tell you his story. I’ve been reminded recently that I shouldn’t tell stories that don’t belong to me. I am going to tell you, though, that in the last ten years, ten years filled with sobriety and spirituality and understanding and prayer, apologies and amends and communication and laughter, my dad and I have built a relationship. A real relationship. We talk and giggle. We argue and grumble. We see each other every day. (Seriously, every day. We live next door to each other. There is a gate in between our backyards for goodness sakes.) We have coffee. We have conversations. We run up the road and grab something to eat. We have an opportunity, every day, to have a relationship.

And we do.

Nothing has been swept under the rug. Nothing has been ignored. We haven’t gone to therapy, we haven’t gone to blows, but in our own way, we’ve worked things out. I made him a grandpa and he made me a priority. He apologized and I forgave him. I decided to let go and together, we decided to start where we were and work our way forward. No time, no energy gets wasted worrying about the way things aren’t, worrying about the way things weren’t. He gets to be my dad and I get to be his daughter…right now. Sure, building a healthy relationship with my dad is an ongoing process. Some days, the man infuriates me. He makes me crazy. But I’m crazy, I’m infuriated because of what’s happening at that moment, not because of things that did or didn’t happen 20 years ago. When I’m missing something, something I think I was supposed to learn from my dad, I just walk next door and ask him how to do it. When he teaches my boys how to do something, bait a hook, fire a gun, properly enjoy a Pepsi or an ice cream cone, I get to learn too.

And at 31, he taught me how to properly eat a Prime Rib Dinner.

When I confessed that I had never ordered it, never eaten it that way, he just smiled. “Really?” he asked. But, not in a shocked way, not in a way that would draw attention. More in a way that showed, in my dad’s own manner, that he was glad he got to be the one to enjoy it with me. “It’s good, isn’t it?”

Yes, it is. Turns out, I really like horseradish.

Happy ten years, Dad. I love you.