After my parents were married but before us children were born, and when Mother was away, I’m pretty sure Dad (age 29) went back to his mother’s house for meals. If while our Mother was away when my siblings were young children, then I honestly don’t know what he did to put on the feedbag, but I think he (age 39) and they also went to his mother’s house for meals.

I just know that when I was young, Daddy didn’t cook. On his days off from teaching, his idea of getting me lunch was slapping a bologna or olive (ugh) and pimento loaf sandwiched together on white pieces of bread, with or without margarine or mayonnaise, lettuce or a piece of cheese.

Dad always kept a supply of bologna in the refrigerator for himself and if that isn’t a metaphor for his baloney, I don’t what is. I guess I was glad he could do that much or I would have starved. If my grandma hadn’t have died before then, bless her heart, I guess he (age 47) and I would have gone to her
house for lunch.

Yet he could do other culinary preparations, like slicing a Butterball turkey on the table, or hatchet off the head of my favorite pet hen (my Sunday dinner horror), or going to the grocery store with a list, or perhaps just boil water (although I accused him once of not being able to do even that), but I just don’t remember much else of any kitchen toil by him, let alone enough to warrant his wearing an apron.

Like many men on different schedules from their wives, he went out to eat when Mother was working. He took me with him on business on those days when I was out of school. In summer, I spent all those days running around the halls of the Maryland Institute of Art, too young to join his class, gawking at the nude models, and particularly bored to eternal boredom outside his classroom at the end of the last session, sitting at the top of the grand marble staircase, waiting for him to clean his brushes and pack up his supplies. It seemed to take an eternity. I was tired of exploring studios, tired of contemplating what life might have in store for me when I grew up, or how many steps there were in the staircase, or how
many veins were in the white marble step below my feet. My stomach rumbled out of tedium and my sinuses dripped from the wonderful smells of oil paint and turpentine.

Anyhow, for our dinner he would sometimes stop at the Hecht Company cafeteria in Edmondson Village on the way home, which I thought was a BIG deal because I’d load up on egg custard or rice pudding, and yes, old enough to carry my own tray. He would stop there so often that he got to know people and, if I was along, he’d introduce me to some of his artistic cronies whose wives apparently weren’t available to cook for them either.

Other places he took me for supper were a tad closer to home = the Polka Dot Restaurant and Pressleys. Far and away, the Polk Dot was the most fun on Route 1. I mean, who wouldn’t want to go into a restaurant made of concrete block painted with big polka dots? It captured my 1950’s imagination. The waitresses there all knew my Dad by name so apparently he went there a lot. While he was bushed and hungry from a long day of teaching or mowing the lawn, I enjoyed lemon meringue pie.

Pressleys was his beloved greasy spoon. It was close by and had a handy hardware section. Over the years, Dad recounted his visits there to anyone who’d listen and which outcome ended in guffaws.

We both sat on stools at the counter, with me tall enough to be just eye-level with the backside of the fry cook.

We noticed on occasion that the fry cook, facing the stove, didn’t realize what she looked like while scratching her behind, through her uniform of course. We could see sweat dripping from her brow, and if
that didn’t take away our appetite, then her wringing out the grease from burgers with her fingers, did. But we had to eat even if hygiene was not a top priority with Stuart Pressley. Even as a kid, my wise old soul understood that she should have worn a hair net, at least. Before Dad had the new house built in 1966, Mother was doing her “I hate to cook” thing in the lead paint-chipped kitchen in Edgewood Cottage. The rituals of learning to cook were brief.

“Pay attention. I’m only gonna show you this once. These are cans called “white man’s pee soup,” possibly with bits o-baloney for protein.” Once she showed me how to make pancakes from the Bisquick box. That was pretty much the extent of my cooking lessons from her that I can recall. Sometimes I would watch her bake a cake and try to remember the steps, but these were fleetingly momentary. However, I knew how to lick the bowls. If I didn’t know any better then, I now believe she wanted me to concentrate of my drawing abilities or school work than wasting time on cooking or maybe she didn’t want to waste time teaching me stuff I didn’t eat after she cooked it — like rhubarb, okra and soggy spinach.
However, when she took a trip, I had to cook the dinners. I tried to remember what Iwatched her do and what she told me to do = over steam the spinach and char the liver. But I tried to improve upon the process. I think the liver turned out pretty tender. Dad never complained about my efforts.
In the beginning:

Just because one prefers to paint rather than eat then, doesn’t make you a chef now. So let me not forget Mom’s homemade applesauce ! Every season, she would NOT pick the green apples from our orchard trees. Not wasting anything, she’d gather the fallen ones instead — those with big brown rotten spots that the bees and the worms preferred. She’d cut them up, not necessarily taking out the bruises (and pooh-poohed me about the worms), cook them down to hot softness and then further grind them to pulp with a wooden pestle in a cullender standing on its four metal feet above a big bowl. Of course, the brown
mess was hot mush and tasted like it looked. She never added any sugar. At her insistence I was obliged to try eating it. One bite was enough for ever. However, Dad’s taste buds ignored the obvious and he liked it.

Sigh. If apron strings were alone in a forest, would they make a sound when they break?

Dad would lament, “Is that the last piece?”