Marty started with TV gameshows. Figuring “Wheel of Fortune”
was age appropriate and somewhat educational, he tried to bribe her with treats
if she could guess the words. Ellen sat stiffly on the sofa, tight-lipped, even
when the answers were painfully obvious.
He brought home two Barbies, not knowing if she’d prefer one
with blonde hair like her mom’s or dark hair like her own.
“Dad! Barbies minus
the ‘r’ spells Babies! I’m not a baby!!”
“Aha! I knew you could spell!” Marty said, grinning at his scowling
daughter.
They played checkers but she expressed no joy when winning and
after three games, asked quietly if she could go to her room. He bought coloured
paper and art supplies; he tried nail polish and My Little Ponies. He presented
her with stickers and Smurfs and a Lightbright, but with each mumbled “thanks,”
she seemed more haunted.
He took her to the re-release of Bambi and had to carry her out as her sobs, “I want my mommy!” were
clearly disturbing the other people in the audience. Their looks confirmed his
failure as a parent. At night after she went to bed, politely declining a story,
he sat in his armchair, head in his hands, fighting the urge to both cry and
punch the wall.
One Saturday afternoon, she came to him, holding a dusty
rolled-up map.
“What’s this?” Feeling encouraged by the slight sound of
enthusiasm in her voice, he exclaimed,
“This, my little Chickpea, is the map I had when I was a
great explorer!”
Marty had been travelling in Europe when he’d called home
and discovered he needed to make an honest woman out of Ellen’s mother, who
years later turned out to be incapable of honesty. He used the money he’d saved
for Asia and Africa to pay for a simple wedding and shortly before Ellen was
born, got a job on the production line of the big valve factory.
He showed Ellen his route from Istanbul to Italy.
“I was here,” he pointed to the Naples dot, “when I found
out about you. I was so excited to meet you that I got on the first plane and
flew here.” For the first time in months, Ellen focused her eyes on his and
smiled. He noticed that her dimples were becoming deeper like all the girls in
his family. He forgave himself the lie.
“What was it like to go to all those places?”
He dug out a box and showed her the stack of photos he’d
taken during those two months. The Blue Mosque, the ancient Greek ruins, the
narrow streets of Napoli, and all that blue sea. And the food! He felt like an
idiot at the time, but seeing the pictures brought back all the flavours of
herbs, fresh ripe tomatoes, peppery olive oil.
She looked at each picture a dozen times, asking questions
that showed an intelligence and curiosity he didn’t know she had.
“I wish I could go to all these places.”
He then got an idea that would change everything for this
tiny adrift family.
“Here throw this at the map.”
Holding her small hand in his, he aimed a dart at the map
he’d hung on the wall of the kitchen. It stuck in Brazil.
“Ok, now we’re going to the library and we’re going to learn
about this country and cook something special to make us feel like we’re there.
What do you say?” Ellen smiled and ran to grab her shoes.
That night they sat together over steaming bowls of feijoada and Marty hid the stinging
behind his eyes as his daughter animatedly recounted every fact she’d learned
about the country.
Ellen had no fear of strange ingredients. She gnawed on raw
lemongrass as they made curry for “Thailand night”; she peeled the heads and
shells off of king prawns to make the rougaille
when she’d hit Mauritius. She’d struck Milan and was amazed at the
transformation of the risotto as she patiently stirred for 25 minutes as Marty
carefully ladled in the stock. One of her favourite nights was when Marty spoke
like the Swedish chef from The Muppets as they made their meatballs. “Cook the
world night” became sacred.
By the time Ellen was in high school, she knew she wanted to
travel the world and become a chef. But she worried about Marty’s health as his
body seemed to be failing him despite his young age. His shoulders stooped and
his joints were permanently stiff from the daily repetitive action at the
factory. Everything took him more time—breaking an egg, flipping a crepe,
mincing garlic. He had a chronic cough and often fell asleep before 9:00.
She couldn’t shake the thought that something was going to
happen to him while she was in some jungle in Asia. Secretly vowing to care for
him forever, she registered for the culinary program at the community college.
The world would be waiting there for short trips after she got a job in a local
restaurant.
For Ellen’s high school graduation, they made a Turkish
feast of grilled koftes, hummus,
eggplant puree, rice pilaf, and stuffed vegetables, hoping it was enough like
an American barbecue to not put off the relatives, whose idea of ethnic cuisine
was sweet and sour pork from Panda Express or Taco Tuesday.
When it came time to open the gifts, envelopes of money, Chicken Soup for the Soul, and a few
cookbooks, she opened her father’s gift last. Inside was a crisp, white apron
and in the pockets, something Ellen both yearned for and dreaded.
“No, I can’t.”
Clutching the plane ticket to her chest, she sobbed in her
father’s arms as he whispered into her ear, “It’s time to really cook the world, my little Chickpea.”
