Fourless

So this weekend I became the official owner of my Father’s vehicle. Which, if you know me is bittersweet. Awesome because I was gifted a vehicle.

Not awesome because it belonged to my Dad.

Who should be driving it himself.

Preferably to go play golf.

If you knew Cliff, he was the perfect mix of grumpy and kind. Mostly grumpy, but the kind part outshined enough to make you say, “Yeah, that’s Cliff.” He was a nursing administrator at a hospital, lead by example, didn’t say more than what needed to be said, listened, problem solved, worked hard, played hard. Loved. Quietly.

When I needed to move home, my parents rearranged their life, let us take over their house, and start over. It enabled me to go back to school for my Masters, and again for my Sixth Level. When I was accepted into the program for my MFA in Writing, I asked my Dad, “Do you really want to sign on for two more years with us?” He did his Dad grin and said, “Get it done.”

I always call my Dad my anchor and my Mom my nest.  Where Mom wants to know how she can help, and jumps in, makes it safe and supportive (more on Norma in another post) Cliff would say, “You need to do this.” Then he would anticipate you to do the right thing. Now.

I’d be writing papers at two am after I fell asleep putting the kids to bed, and he’d peek my doorway to see if I was ok. He’d nod his head, then leave. That was my Dad.

When my Dad was diagnosed with cancer, We put on our brave faces, asked, “What can we do to help?” and did what we needed to do. We did this for less than a year.

He never complained. Not. Once.

He passed the first week in November. His Christmas cards were already addressed.

The following part is hard to say, but as his daughter, I am so thankful he went as he did.

With dignity and the best quality of life his diagnosis could have offered.

But, as his daughter, I still wake up, almost three years later, and wish I had him for one more day.

The best grieving advice I ever got was from my oldest friend, who said, “You expect Christmas to be hard. You don’t anticipate Tuesday to be hard.” I guess that’s just grief. Like an ocean tide, coming in and going out.

When he bough the car, he told my mom, “Give it to Chrissy, then she will be set for awhile.” The paperwork was lined up, all set to go. That’s the kind of Dad I had.

It took me three years to make it mine.

And it has heated seats. My old Honda doesn’t have heated anything!

Sometimes when I cook, or bake, it isn’t because I even want to eat it. (It’s TRUE). Sometimes it serves a higher purpose.

Where some people dread the task of food prep, there is a simple, therapeutic, peaceful beauty to time in my kitchen. I welcome it. It’s my Sunday post church, church, if you know what I mean. Some Sundays, it is my church.

The very last recipe my Dad shared with me was for his all time favorite cookie, the Coconut Macaroon.

Due to his type of cancer, at one point eating became really difficult. So, when he was able to have a macaroon for the first time again, it was a good sign. Temporary, but I am so thankful for those cookies and what they meant for my father.

SO this rainy morning, even though I am sad, I am thankful. Thankful for the Dad I had as long as I did. Thankful he loved to cook and shared that with me. Thankful for the anchor I was blessed enough to know.

It seems fitting I bake his favorite cookies, doesn’t it?

These are a simple, non piped, chewy, basic macaroon. Mix in one bowl, chill if you like but don’t need to, drop on parchment, and bake cookie. It’s a sweeter cookie, so one is enough. Ok, eat the second one too.

A cookie recipe of few words. Unlike this post. So much like my Dad.

If you aren’t a fan of coconut. I know you are out there. It’s ok. You don’t have to like it or make them. But, I wish for you love and anchors and nests in your life. If you didn’t have one, that you’ll become one, and that our hearts are thankful. Every day a gift.

I hope you enjoy this recipe, and as always, thank you for coming to the table.

Chrissy

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