House Crashing with Dad

Summer days playing Tetris and grilling corn.

“Sa! Come here. I want to show you something!” 

Dad pulled back the screen door and walked outside with a bowl of sloshing water. I joined him on the patio just as he pulled out four ears of corn and placed them onto the hot grill. The soggy husks sizzled and sputtered, generating gray smoke that crawled over the fence into the neighbor’s backyard. He shut the lid and gave his scotch a swirl. 

“See Sa, you gotta soak them first. Otherwise, they’ll catch on fire!” he laughed, waving his arms in the air like he was an ear of corn engulfed in flames. With his ever-changing repertoire of silly voices, rosy cheeks and short stature he reminded me of Robin Williams.

Between giggles, I paid close attention to what he was teaching me through the art of entertainment, a skill he had mastered. 

Just barely out of fourth grade, I had so much to learn. The only corn I had tasted was creamed style, out of a can, frozen pellets from a bag, or boiled and speared with those little spiked holders that look like plastic corn on the cobs. Today we were having grilled corn, and it wasn’t even yellow: It was white. Dad had stepped up his game. 

Dad stepped up his game for his customers too. After I was born, he sang and played piano in piano bars at night. As he got older, his voice weakened and he switched to morning bartending. He awoke at 4 a.m. to get to work on time, stopping by the grocery store for a head of celery on his own dime. 

Every stool was taken by the time he opened the bar at 6 a.m. His morning routine with his loyal customers included Folgers coffee; The Morning Show with Regis Philbin and Kathy Lee; and Bloody Marys crafted from V8 and a can of Clamato, finished with a fresh celery stalk. He knew everyoneʻs name, what they drank and where they headed after their morning drink.

In addition to elevating everyone’s experience, Dad made people feel like they fit in, just as he had to when he first arrived in our small town, way out in East County San Diego. As an entertainer and son of a stock broker from New York, he had experienced wealth, fame, poverty, shame, and everything in between. He had the street smarts of a man who had lived precariously and fully, with the enthusiasm of a child who was seeing life brand-new every day. When Dad paraded me down the bar, introducing me to every customer – young, old, wealthy, poor, well-dressed or tattered from living on the street – he made me and everyone in the bar feel like somebody. 

After my parents separated, dad dated a woman who lived in a meticulous house with big white sofas and a Nintendo Playboy I got to play Tetris on.

That day, I was out of school for summer break. Mom was at work, so I hung out with Dad. We stopped by a fancy grocery store on our way to his new ladyfriendʻs house. The excitement he exuded planted a kernel of interest in me that emerged years later, when I too found myself getting giddy about food. 

Instead of fluorescent lights with metal shelves and end caps overflowing with cheap potato chips, this market was dimly lit, with dark wood paneling and a butcher department flaunting rows of thick steaks. In the produce section, we found a pyramid of fresh corn atop four wooden barrels. Dad beelined for the display, and filled a plastic bag to the top. Then we were on our way.

His girlfriend was not at home. Sometimes it felt like we were breaking and entering. Dad liked to pull out crystal glassware and silver-rimmed plates. We would dine and laugh like it was against the law. Before she came home, we always cleaned up the place, as if we were never there. 

I installed myself in the living room, lounging upside down on the sofa, set on improving my Tetris score. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him walk into the kitchen to fill a giant bowl with cold water to soak the unhusked corn. Then he rolled back the sliding glass door to the patio and turned on the gas grill. 

When the cobs were ready, Dad grabbed a pair of tongs and transferred the corn to a plate. He let them cool just enough for us to touch them with our bare hands. He showed me how to peel back the husk like a banana and strip off the silky hairs. Then we rolled our corn over a softened stick of butter, sprinkled them with salt and pepper, and attacked them as though they were ice cream cones. 

I got a few stray strands of corn silk stuck in my teeth, but the corn was so sweet it didn’t matter. The sweet kernels exploded with every bite. They were crunchy and juicy instead of waterlogged and rubbery from too much time spent in a freezer. 

“Isn’t this the best?!” Dad shouted, his mouth full of corn. 

“It’s better than candy!” I exclaimed. 

On that sunny afternoon, sitting at a glass patio table under a giant umbrella, it felt like I was at a resort. Dad could make a meal in a two-dollar diner feel like a feast at the Ritz-Carlton. Like Tetris, the more gaps of my life dad filled in, the more they felt complete. The falling shapes on the screen were like my worries, spending time with Dad was like fitting them into neat rows, as the shapes lined up they vanished. 

We had nothing else to eat. No meat, no chips, no salad. Dad had spent less than $4 on corn and I felt like the richest girl in the world. Ten years later, working in my first restaurant job, I found joy again in food. When the first signs of summer produce appeared and my chef wheeled in a case of corn to shuck, I knew exactly what to do.

Previously Published:

Leading Ladies | Violet, 2024 Spring Issue