Reminiscing...

You guys may or may not know that my father died last year, in the week before Christmas.



You may or may not have read what I said about it.



But I've been thinking about him a lot, not just because we're coming up to that time of year, but because of the things I see changing in the world today. I know what he would have said.



He'd hate it. Because we've forgotten how to do so much.



I remember, more than once, making ice cream with my father.



We'd get a couple of chairs, go sit out front of the garage, and pour salt and ice into the bucket. Once we had a good pool of brine, put the tank with the milk, cream, sugar, and flavor in it - Dad and I both loved vanilla, so that's what we usually made - and start cranking.



My arms would get sore, my butt would hurt from the hard-ass folding chairs, it was hotter than hell on earth - Houston, in summer - but the payoff was a whole afternoon of shooting the shit with my father, sitting in front of the garage, and a big tub of the best ice cream ever.



When did we all forget how to do that?



My turns got longer as I got older, obviously. The last time we made ice cream, my father was 70, and I was 28. I did most of the cranking, he did most of the talking. I'm very glad I decided to do most of the listening that day. He was talking about this very subject; all the things that people used to know how to do, and have forgotten, or didn't think to pass along.



I was just talking to Samara, and we were trading recipes (yes, I can cook. Shut up.) and we realized just how many things our parents, grandparents, and great grandparents knew how to do that they just never passed on to us.



My grandmother makes the best pecan pies known to man. She's been making them for a large portion of her 92 years, and she's the expert. Grew the pecans on the ranch my grandfather built her, baked pies with her own fresh pecans.



I don't know the recipe. I can find out - and I intend to - but somehow that one just slipped by.



Samara's great grandmother used to make biscuits so good the kids would fight over the chance to lick the bowl when she was done. Of BISCUIT BATTER. And not one, not ONE, of her kids, grandkids, or great-grandkids, knows the recipe.



When the fuck did we decide that we didn't need to know this stuff?



And WHY?



I know one thing. Girl or boy, no matter what else I do right or wrong, no matter what mistakes I make, no matter what lessons I teach, even if I don't intend to, my child will goddamned well know how to make ice cream.



And they will learn the way I did. Sitting with their dad, in front of the garage, in the middle of the hottest part of summer, sipping on a soda and turning a hand crank for as long as it takes.



Because there are some things we ought not to forget how to do.