An English proverb says, “One father is more than a hundred schoolmasters.” I couldn’t agree more. My father was tall with wavy dark brown hair, steel blue eyes, and spoke with a Maine accent despite living in Oklahoma most of his adult life. Thanks to him, I know how to ride a motorcycle, start a campfire, and make the best jalapeño cheese dip in the world.
Father’s Day was always one of my favorite holidays. It was the day where I got to spoil my dad as much as he spoiled me. We’d spend the day together doing whatever he wanted to do—which surprisingly always turned out to be something I wanted to do. I would make him a handmade Father’s Day card and cook his favorite dinner. He’s been gone for many years now but the tradition continues with my own family.
Each year, my husband is treated to breakfast in bed. Our children get up early to make the special meal, which over the years has evolved from cereal and juice, to the ever favorite egg in a basket (where you cut a circle in a slice of bread and cook the egg inside), to omelets or pancakes. It is supposed to be a surprise but shouts of “No, that’s not how you do it!” and the loud clanking of pots of pans makes sleeping in late nearly impossible.
After an hour or two, the expertly made breakfast, usually served cold and a little bit burned, arrives at his bedside with two smiling faces eager to explain who made what and to hear him exclaim how delicious everything tastes. Without hesitation, my husband digs into the charred, unrecognizable delicacies and cheerfully announces it’s the best breakfast he has ever had.
It’s always a great start to Father’s Day.