My Boy Can Cook

I've been thinking about my brother a lot lately, which really isn't unusual as I think about him often. People think about the people that were important to them, especially when those people have killed themselves and there are a lot of unanswered questions.

He was my older brother and for much of my growing-up years, I idolized him, though he tormented me no end, in my eyes he was a god. That's just how it is with younger brothers and older brothers. 

I could run through a maudlin self-indulgent list of why he was so wonderful to me, and maybe convince you as to why I thought so, but the reality is that you would just read the words and never see the man I looked up to and tried so hard to emulate. You just wouldn't get it, so I am not going to try...and we'll both be happier that way.

We had several things in common: music, fantasy football, pinochle, and cooking. My Mom made sure that we both knew how to cook. She had told us both, "If I die before your father, then you have to get him remarried right away because he would starve otherwise. My Dad could cook toast. My Mom made sure that my brother and I could do much more than that.

Both my brother and I worked our way through several different restaurants on our way to landing in our respective careers. We liked talking about food and cooking, it was a safe subject for us and we were both very passionate about it. As time went by, and we grew older and our lives drifted apart (while his demons and mine grew) we communicated less and less, though invariably, when we did talk, we would touch on each of the subjects...including cooking.

Over the years, my brother adopted a kind of country bumpkin/biker look that confounded the rest of the family. He adopted the pose of the outsider and tended to live up to the "family black sheep" persona. After a while, even his speech patterns shifted toward a rural-rough-edged mannerism that was completely contrary to how we were raised. He became an Oakland Raiders fan and thus tended to adopt certain speech patterns. I still understood his words though, because I was listening with that eager "little brother" ear that yearned so for his approval and recognition.

That's why I was thinking of him tonight. Why, when I was cooking a chili-lime seasoned salmon with picatta sauce, herbed rice and peach-strawberry-blue cheese fruit salad I was listening with my "little brother" ears for his voice, standing behind me saying, 

"My boy can cook."

God how I wish I could hear him say that.