Things My Fathers Taught Me

June 14, 2012 By

For Father’s Day, I thought I’d share Things My Fathers Taught Me.  That ‘s’ at the end of father is no typo.  Technically, I have four fathers.  Good thing I’m a Daddy’s Girl.

 

Let’s break it down.

 

Dad #1, Daddy,  the original, one and only. The FATHER.  Lost but not forgotten December 7, 2010.

Dad: #2, raised me from the age of three.  Took me shopping for my first prom dress & taught me how to drive (both dangerous activities)

Dad #3:  Practice makes perfect. The strong silent type.  Always full of warmth and a big smile.

Father-in-law:  Everyone calls him Grandpa.  Which is good, because for the first 10 years I called him ‘you’. An extraordinary man who walks his own path. Raised the hubs, one of the many things he did right.

 

left to right: daddy, Allan, Grandpa, Dad

right to left: Dad, Grandpa, Allan, Daddy

The Advice:

 

Don’t piss IT away (Daddy).  Nobody was ever  really sure what ‘it’ was, but we took ‘it’ to be anything one was lucky to have such as money, talent, brains, and the like that one should value, treasure, or tread carefully with as opposed to, I guess, pissing away.

 

It’s the people who are important (Daddy).   When I was 12, and trying desperately to hang out with my friends and be cool instead of going out with my Dad for one of our weekend visits, I zingered him with I‘m not coming.  I don’t want to go THERE. or DO THAT. Whatever he wanted to go, I’m sure my rejection hurt his feelings, as he planned all of our outings with the greatest care.  His response to me?  It’s not where you’re going, it’s who you’re with.  And you know what, he was so right.

 

You don’t have to be blood to be family (Dad).  My stepfather took my brother and I to his heart like we were his own children.  From the moment he met my mother, we were his, and he took the responsibility of raising us very seriously.  Even after he and my mother divorced, he remained (and remains) completely and totally in my life.

 

With a little bit of care, you too can look like a movie star (Allan).  My mother’s husband is so fancy and handsome sometimes people can’t believe it. He’s proof positive that if you good care of your things (including your body), it will last forever.  He’s also a walking advertisement for healthy and careful eating, as he’s kept early-stage prostate cancer at bay through diet and exercise.

 

If you’ve got confidence, you can garden in tiny Adidas shorts (Daddy).  My father possessed a pair of shorts that were last seen on that 70s show.  He wore them with a screw you and a devil may care attitude.  In fact, he treated his whole life like those shorts, and was proof positive that if you march to the beat of your own drummer, you can be successful and happy.

 

You can never love your kids too much (Grandpa). My Father-in-Law is a man who loves his family. He is there for them through thick and thin, and never hesitates to share his wisdom or all out support.  He is all father, all the time.

 

Love what you do  (Dad, Daddy).  The only person who loved being a dentist more than my stepfather was my Dad.  Both of my fathers were so passionate about their work. They showed that you can, and should, go to work happy and fulfilled every single day of your life.

 

Laughter is the best medicine (Daddy, Grandpa) These two know (knew) how to tell a dirty joke like nobody’s business. Well, not as much my father, because he would never remember the punchline to any of his jokes. Being around these two always means (meant) that you were giggling (or cringing) most of the time, all the while being winked at and elbowed with ‘did ya get it?’

 

Mostly, my fathers taught me:

Listen to your Fathers.  These four men have guided the lives of of their kids, steps and in-laws.  They have wisdom, and they’ve shared it openly, with love, and of course the occasional unwanted lecture.

 

Live like nobody is watching . My Dads have all walked their own paths and have created their own individual imprints on our world.  Each one totally unique, each one finding the joy in their lives, their kids, grandchildren, work and spouses.

 

 

Explains a lot.

 

Some John Mayer. It’s appropriate.

 

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My Father: Things I Know

December 7, 2011 By

Sausage and egg mcmuffin

Today I ate an Egg McMuffin. My sister told me to (you can find her at www.itsnotthatserious.net) , as a remembrance for our father, who passed away one year ago today. But now, as well as sad, I feel totally nauseous. I never ever eat McDonalds, never mind anything with sausage patty inside of it or a hash brown next to it (because if you’re going to get it, you have to get the meal, right?) I didn’t even know my Dad’s guilty pleasure was a greasy Egg McMuffin. But, these things I do know.

He held my Bat Mitzvah party, a late night cocktail event, at Bersani & Carlevale, somehow sensing that what I really wanted was to feel cosmopolitan and grown up.

He introduced me to all kinds of tastes, textures, and international foods. Some of my best birthday dinners were at Scaramouche or the Boulevard Club. He got me to try tongue, and turned me vegetarian with sweetbreads.

He spent his weekends with anywhere from 2 to 5 kids trailing behind him, sometimes with a spouse, sometimes just on his own. He took care of us as he knew best, if you count teaching 6 year olds dirty jokes as childcare. He never, in his 70 years, changed a diaper.

When he made me cheese melted on toast (the only thing I would eat from age 3-6) he used extra old cheddar and fancy artisan breads, and he never covered the bread completely with the cheese.

When I had my wisdom teeth out, he came almost every day to visit, bringing books and surprises to cheer me up.

He bought me an Easy Bake Oven and sampled every delicious cake I cooked up with that light bulb.

He loved to wear blues and greens, which were the colours of his eyes.

His secretary had to write my letters to camp as his handwriting was unreadable. But he still wrote me at least twice a week.

He sent me a Valentines Box when I was at the University of British Columbia, somehow sensing how homesick I was. Inside were chocolates, several Valentines cards, a Marci Lipman Sweatshirt covered in hearts, a teddy bear, and an Olympics sweatshirt.

He had a glove compartment full of candies, especially jubejubes and black babies.

He took us on adventures. Everything with him was fun: sampling Sasparilla at country fairs, car breakdowns on country roads, art gallery visits, Stratford Festival, the Shaw Festival, and any other cultural pursuits he could find. He used to drive his BMW, laden with children, flying over a bump on York Mills Road, speeding and then going airborne, as we screamed, ‘Do it again. Do it again.’

He used to call my house and ask ‘Where’s ___(insert child’s name)?’ I’d answer and then he’d say, ‘OK bye.’ And that was it. He just wanted to know they were ok.

He took us seriously. He took our education seriously. He took our opinions, our actions, our honour seriously. He took not quitting seriously. When we were not happy, it truly troubled him.

He believed in giving back and never taking for granted. He supported Covenant House because he had 5 healthy children and 11 amazing grandchildren. He supported Sick Kids because they were incredible when his granddaughter (my niece) had Neuroblastoma.

He wasn’t shy to kiss and hug and tell people how he felt. He loved nicknames. He seemed silly at times, but that was his love of life shining through.

He wasn’t perfect. He was congenitally late. He sometimes let me down, or went back on a word he shouldn’t have given. He was infuriating at times. He’d lecture me for hours, or would obsess on one detail. He left really long messages on my voicemail.

I didn’t even know that my Dad liked Egg McMuffins. But I did know that he loved me.

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Yahrzeit: Its like empty

October 8, 2011 By

Today is Yom Kippur: The Day of Atonement. Its a day where Jewish people reflect on their missteps from the year previous, and commit themselves to being better in the coming year. Its not a sad day, but rather meant to revel and recognize in the amazingness that life has to offer if you live it as your best self. Its a day where we fast, not to punish, but so that our thoughts and minds can focus on thought and prayer, and not on food.

In Judaism, only you can judge your behaviour, and you report only to those who’s lives your actions affect, as well as to G-d (or another higher power, wherever your belief system takes you).

One part of the Yom Kippur observance is participating in a Yizkor service. In the prayers of Yizkor, we ask G-d to remember and look over the ones we have lost. We light a Yahrzeit candle in honour of them, which is to burn for the full 26 hours (from the first rays of the sun going down, to the last rays of the sundown the next day.

Yizkor Candle

This is the first time that I lit a Yahrzeit candle for my father. It was another milestone in this first year without him. I didn’t think it would bother me. But it did. Most terribly. There is a big knot in my throat, that no amount of baking, fasting, or sleeping can dissolve.

Just like his life ended far too soon, the Yahrzeit candle burned out after only 18 hours.

Tomorrow, I will move past what I’ve lost, and give thanks for what I had yesterday, for what I have right now, and for what I will have tomorrow. But, today, I miss my Dad.

Missing you is like empty
Your name on my lips
I see your face in my mind, but its not you
Its fading; no longer real
I don’t feel your strength
Hear your voice, see you smile
as you say my name
Missing you is like empty
Your words in my ears,
guiding, cajoling, laughing, praising
I feel your hand on mine,
but its not really there, disappears
Memories, photos, this candle I light
They’re not you
You’re not in there
They just make
Missing you like empty
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Never be the Same

February 23, 2011 By

Cordwainer-Smith.com

Tuesdays will never been the same. 

Snowstorms, seafoam green, Pasta Puttanesca, Vancouver, Cyndi Lauper. These will never been the same. 

 December 7th will never be the same. 

Bear Hugs, the word Daddy, brisket, report cards, the Palm Treo, magazines.  They too will never be the same. 

Valentines Day, holiday dinners, dirty jokes, dental work, man purses, the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show, Law and Order SVU .  Not the same.

The Royal Ontario Museum, The Art Gallery, food,  The Science Centre, The Stratford and Shaw Festivals.  For sure, never the same.

When I lost my father, I lost a piece of me. I lost a giant point of reference by which I measured my accomplishments, my experiences, my life.  Infuriatingly bossy, so full of love, extraordinarily and joyfully eccentric-those were ways to describe him.  But right now, the only way I can describe him is gone.

But, just like any other day that comes after the one before, I need to try and remember that nothing ever is the same.  That every day is an opportunity to create new memories to layer ontop of the old. Except, I don’t want to.

And so, in this, the first piece of writing I have created, other than business documents, since the night my father died, I pledge to recognize and embrace the fact that nothing will ever be the same.  Is that a new addition to the stages of grief?  

First I was in denial.  I pretended he was on vacation. 

Then I had the good old guilt.  I didn’t tell him how much I loved him, how special he was to me, how he had shaped my life. We didn’t have ‘the conversation’. Then, I realized, we’d had that conversation.  Throughout my life. Just because my siblings had summed it up in a final talk, and I hadn’t, didn’t mean it didn’t happen. And he did tell me he loved me, over and over in the last weeks. And he did tell me I was a ‘good little caregiver’ days before he left us.  I’mworking on convincing myself that this knowledge is enough (guilt is definitely a work in progress).

Then, I was angry. So very angry that the last time I was supposed to see him there was a snowstorm and I couldn’t get to his house.  And that he died while I was in Vancouver on a job interview.  And that he’s not here. When I want him.

Finally, I guess there was acceptance.  That happened a few times.  Once, I went to call him when I was at the Science Centre with Little J. I started to dial then realized there would be no one at the other end of the line.   When report cards came, I went to dial once again.  And left a message for my step-mother instead.  Another day, probably the hardest, I was cooking for my son’s birthday brunch and I thought ‘Oh, my Dad’s gonna love this quiche with leeks, mushrooms, goat cheese and dill.’  And then I thought, ‘Oh. He’s not coming. He’s dead.’ 

And now, I’m fixed on ‘Its never gonna be the same’.  The place where he lives in me can’t be filled just by memories.  His presence was too large.  I need substance.  But I’m not ready to fill that space with new experiences. 

I said to my Step-father, ‘I want to boycott Passover.’ 

 ’You can’t stop life’.  He replied. Why not, I want to know.  I’m just not completely ready to create new experiences.

My father’s death may be the first time that something has happened to me that I haven’t been able to joke about. That’s a weird feeling for me.  Usually, I am a master at self-mocking.  Plus, I’m actually known for making cringingly inappropriate comments at the most inopportune times.  But I guess, that too will never be the same.  I have found something that isn’t funny. But, maybe someday I will.  After all my Dad would definitely want me to. 

So, in the spirit of finding the funny, and to cheer both you and me up after this depressing, albeit cathartic diatribe, I give you Cindy Lauper  Because my Dad, ever the rebel, named  his ‘pussy’ (and yes, imagine him saying that with a filthy twinkle in his eye) Cindy, because she just wanted to have fun. 

And as I recognize that things will never be the same, I will try to get my funny back and to encourage my kids to get up to all manner of mischief so I can entertain you once more.

Filed Under: Family, Life, Life Lessons, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , , ,

A Eulogy: My Daddy, Their Grandpa Treats, Everyone's Dr. R

December 10, 2010 By

Dr. Arthur Rubinoff

Anyone who knew Arthur Rubinoff knew he lived his life to the fullest.  He marched to the beat of his own drummer, followed his own set of rules, and had a damn good time in the process.  He was also one of the smartest people you’d ever meet, able to converse with everyone and anyone, regardless of their interests.

It’s hard to sum up a man like him in just a few words, but I’ll try.

There was the public Arthur.  Charismatic.  An amazingly talented dentist.  An art collector, a wine connoisseur.  A gardener.  A rebel.  A lover of women.  An unbelievable cook.  A father, a husband, a friend.  A maker of nicknames. There was never a more gregarious, intense, emotional, multi-tasking person.  Not only did he attack life with an unsurpassed passion, he also practiced gentleness, humility and kindness.

There was also the private Arthur: Daddy, Grandpa Treats.   The sensitive, loving, humble, warm, sweet man.  Who would tell you, and anyone else who would listen that he was proud of you. Praise your accomplishments. Tell you that you were beautiful. That you were a wonderful mother.  An amazing cook. An excellent dentist. A good provider. A great dancer.  An amazing musician. An excellent student.  A great artist.  Daddy didn’t give praise for the sake of it, but when he did, it meant something. Daddy had pictures of us, and the grandchildren all over his office, and no matter what procedure he was doing, he always would take our calls.  “Hello. Which one is this? What do you want?  That’s not important…why did you call?”

Our childhoods were unconventional with our Daddy, but boy were they a whole lot of fun. We went to plays, museums, country fairs, the planetarium.  We never just sat around watching TV.

Every visit with Daddy started with the opening of the glove compartment, where the candy would tumble out.  Jujubes, black babies, licorice, you name it.  Obviously, that’s how he got his name, “Grandpa Treats” as he always arrived with goodies for the kids. Never empty handed or empty hearted, he loved his grandchildren so much. I’ll never forget his face when my daughter Skylar was born, and he held his ‘pumpkin’ for the first time. That pride was repeated 9 more times, as each of his much-loved grandchildren arrived to enrich his world.

Daddy had several passions in life, His family.  His artistry as a dentist. His commitment to finding a cure for Neuroblastoma, and to raising money for the James Burrell Fund.. He believed in the importance of education, and was always asking about the kids’ marks and if any of us adult childen wanted to take courses.   He had conviction: he didn’t make any decision lightly but once he did, he stuck by it.

With Paddy, he finally found his life partner.  He loved, respected, and admired her. She brought richness to his life he didn’t have before, with family, friends, and travels.  Paddy, thank you for being such a wonderful wife to daddy, and for finally getting him to be on time. He loved you so much.

A few more things maybe you didn’t know. Random people used to give him tastes of their dinner in restaurants. He loved spicy food. He would eat just about anything, but drew the line at blood pudding.  He bought art because he liked it, not because someone told him it had value.  He loved traditional Jewish food like brisket.  He always took a doggie bag when he ate at someone’s house

What we know, as his children.  He taught us how to love, what love means, and how to say ‘I love you’ with ease. He taught us that if you love your work, you’ll want to go every day.  He taught us that you can find joy and richness in everyday things.  He showed us that you can connect on a personal level with everyone you come into contact with; that everyone is a potential friend.

Once Daddy said to me:  Its not where you’re going, its who you’re with.  It’s the people who matter. Its not the place, or the money you spend. That’s how he lived his life. People were important to him: his loved ones, his children, his grandchildren, his patients, his friends.  His legacy is of love, life, generosity, and learning.  This world will not be the same without Arthur Herbert Rubinoff (he would kill me if he knew I said his middle name).  I used to say it to him, and I’ll say it again, “Look around. This is ALL because of you.”

Filed Under: Family, Life Lessons, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , , ,

Pasta Puttanesca: Food is Love

November 26, 2010 By
Pasta Puttanesca

Pasta Puttanesca (adapted from Rachael Ray/Food Network)

Both of my parents are amazing cooks.  This is an example of how my mom cooks.

Fancy Lady reading a cookbook ready to measure

My mother can do some fancy shmancy things with like lettuce and twirly stuff and make it look pretty. She reads recipes and measures, and pays attention.  She doesn’t even talk on the phone whilst cooking in case she misses an important step.  Through experience, she is able to make additions and substitutions, but through and through, she is a recipe-follower.   There have been episodes with black pepper and burned food, but since she likes it peppery and well done, those were probably accident-on-purposes.  I learned how to cook traditional Jewish foods from my mom, how to follow a recipe, and how to make things pretty (usually, I can’t be bothered to do the latter two.  I don’t follow recipes because I usually forget to buy one of the ingredients, and I don’t make things pretty because I don’t feel like it)

My Daddy is where I learned my creative, messy, intuitive, smell-it, something-from-nothing-but-tastes-awesome skills.

Me and my Daddy, soon after his diagnosis

Chicky Mara (that's me) and my Big Daddy (Arthur Rubinoff)

His marinade and pasta sauce making skills are legendary.  He loves browsing grocery and specialty shops and buying neat and unusual ingredients and then whipping up absolutely delicious concoctions with them.  Just like my Dad, I collect ingredients, and can, on a whim grab a few, match the flavours, and create. The down-side?  These creations are usually one-offs, since neither one of us can never remember what we put into our masterpieces.

Sundays from my teens to early 20s, my siblings and I would gather at our Dad’s house in downtown Toronto.  (See my bio to understand who might have been there. ) And we’d cook.  We’d make a huge mess while we’d mix, chop, and stir, all at a high volume (us Rubinoffs are LOUD).  The marinades and grill were my Daddy’s domain, though.  And he was the master.

Many times we made Pasta Puttanesca together.  That was our favorite.  Translated from the Italian, Puttanesca means ‘Prostitute’.  Daddy said it was because it was ‘fast and easy’.  We always thought that was hilarious.   The results of our communal efforts were always delicious, and we would sit on his beautiful deck in summer, or at the dining table in winter, and eat, talk, laugh and argue.

My Big Daddy is very sick now, and not long for this world. We have all these wonderful memories he has given us, as well as our amazing intuition for cooking.  By the way, one of my sisters has an absolutely gorgeous blog, Running and Recipes, so check it out.  The other night, he asked me to make Pasta Puttanesca for him.  Eager to tempt his appetite, I whipped up the following recipe, adapted from Rachael Ray’s 30 Minute Meals on the Food Network:

Smash 4 large cloves of garlic and rough chop one tin of Anchovies, drained of the oil (some use salted anchovies) (Don’t worry, you cannot taste the anchovies, at all)

Saute them in  2 tbsp of Olive Oil in a large pan, on medium heat, stirring constantly so that the garlic doesn’t burn, but so that the anchovies mostly dissolve into the oily mixture. Your house will smell fantastic. Add crushed red pepper flakes to taste-I put about 1 1/2 tsp.  (Big Daddy says don’t put red pepper flakes in too early if cooking a sauce for a long time, as they will get hotter as they cook up)

Then, add in about 3 tbsp of drained capers.  Stir again.  Add one 28 oz can of diced tomatoes (get San Marzano if you can-it makes the difference), and 1/2 28 oz can of chunky crushed tomatoes (or a 14 oz one if you can find it), as well as about 1 cup of roughly chopped pitted kalamata olives.  (When we used to make it, we had to pit the olives, which was the worst job and given to the one sister who couldn’t cook).

Splash once around with balsamic vinegar (I put balsamic in everything because it adds that litttle something something).  Toss in about 1/2 cup chopped parsley, and 4 chopped fresh basil leaves.  Grind some black pepper on top. Stir that baby up, cover, lower heat, and let simmer for about 10 minutes.  While the sauce is cooking, you can cook the pasta.  This recipe is for a 454 g bag of pasta.

p.s Do not add salt.  It will be disgusting. The capers, anchovies, and olives all have salt.

I hope you enjoy making memories with this Pasta Puttanesca like our family has made. So cook together and eat together.

FOOD IS LOVE

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