It was my father who taught me to cook. I was home from school that day, for what reason I can’t remember but my mother was working and my father was at home. We were told by my mother the day before that we should cook pasta and that she had prepared everything else. I had just learnt how to boil rice and told my dad I didn’t need any help.
As I put the pot on the stove I poured in the pasta directly in the water, my father came. He didn’t laugh, but smiled and said calmly that the pasta should be put just when the water boils. I asked why we had to wait that long, then the pasta would never be done by the time my mother comes back from work. I remember looking up to my father while he was explaining, admiring him that he knew so much about so many things. I don’t remember all he told me about pasta, I was busy and concentrated thoughts to admire him.
Another memory I have of my father is when I was about 5 years old. I had this red comfy jumpsuit of velour and my hair was down to my shoulders. I had lost my front tooth when bicycling with the kids from the neighbourhood. I was now standing in front of the piano. In my world, it was big as a whale but I liked it as it could make sounds. I was really stubborn this day and not willing to go to bed as I was told. The melody I was playing was just in my own head and my father who was standing beside me tried to convince me to not hit the piano as hard. I obviously didn’t listen. My father sat down next to me and talked with a soft and slow voice. After a while I did reckon he was actually talking to me. I took one hand of the piano and put it in my mouth, I looked at him like I was ashamed of doing something bad. He told me would play tomorrow, together and perhaps even for a longer time but that it was time to go to bed now. I looked at him, his white wavy hair was shining as always and his moustache ended in small circles on each side of his mouth. His lines were defined by the eyes, my father was a happy man, smiling often and this was shown in the wrinkles around the eyes. His glasses tipped a bit down his nose and his voice was calm and soft. he breathed authority but gave a lot of love. I took away my other hand from the piano and put my arms around his neck and closed my eyes. I felt safe as he lifted me up and stood up him self. Come here you little frog, he said, let’s get you to bed.
