Father's Day Gazpacho

When we think of love and nourishment through food, we generally picture our mothers. Perhaps this is an attitude bequeathed by the creators of June Cleaver. Perhaps this is because grocery store foods are often linked, through adverts, to Mother Nature. And more than likely this is because it was our mothers that packed peanut butter and jelly in our lunch boxes and served roast pork with apple sauce for dinner. When we think of love and nourishment with food, we picture our mothers, in aprons, near an oven. Rarely do we think of our fathers. But this Father’s Day, I find myself thousands of miles away from my own father and considering his role in nourishing me, and in loving us.

Out-numbered is one way my family often describes my father. Hen-pecked could be another way to describe my father’s life with his beloved wife, three teenaged daughters, two female cats, plus the one (token) male parakeet. The women in my father’s life were and are strong-willed, inclined to blow every problem sky high and, without a doubt, a joy to live with. During any past female eruption, my father remained on the side until the worst subsided before, with a weary sigh, heaving himself from of his arm-chair to follow the latest disruption to her bedroom in order to bear-hug her back into good spirits.

Despite the constant upheaval in his home life, my father loved – loves – each of “his girls:” unreservedly, tolerantly, deeply. When my two sisters and I were very young, on weekend mornings we’d wake to sizzling sounds and pad into the kitchen to find sunshine in our yellow kitchen and my father, arms akimbo, supervising hash browns next to his even brighter yellow electric frying pan. When my sisters and I were a bit older, one summer my mother resumed working evening shifts at the hospital and charged my father with the preparation of family dinners. This, despite the fact that my father (like most men of his generation) was not comfortable in his own kitchen.

Nonetheless, my father began with what he knew: he drove to Costco and bought long tubes of chicken burgers and crackling packs of Kosher hotdogs. Then, dinner after summer dinner, he fed his happy girls barbequed meat on white buns with large sides of tater-tots. When my mother learned of these meals, she did not approve and decreed that my father must feed his girls healthy dinners. We complained, and my father protested, and eventually agreement emerged: one night a week we were allowed hotdogs, a tradition that my father dubbed, “Wednesday night at the ballpark.” But with that compromise in place, thus began my father’s forays into actual cooking.

At first he started simply, and with the Mexican-influenced foods that he loved. He drove back to Costco and purchased bags of chicken instead of tubes. Then, he went to the nearest grocery store for foot-high cans of tomato juice along with cucumbers, avocados, onions and tomatoes. During those first hot summer nights, he leaned over a cutting board to precisely cube cucumbers, dice tomato and red onions and then mix in his favorite large metal bowl. Then he’d pull a chilled can of tomato juice from the ‘fridge and carefully pour until the vegetables vanished under the juice. Next, he’d pull out a tablespoon and exactly measure three tablespoons of olive oil along with two tablespoons of wine vinegar. He placed bowls of this version of gazpacho in front of his girls before fetching those Costco chicken breasts from the barbeque. As summer turned to fall and fall turned into winter and years turned into years, my father’s cooking progressed and he developed a repertoire that includes his own version of lemon chicken, a myriad of (Public television’s) Rick Bayless dishes, Mexican “Albondigas” meatball soup and an Italian Minestrone that I myself cook when what I need a bear-hug from my father.

This Father’s Day, I am homesick for my father. So I called and asked him about his cooking. “I love you girls,” he told me with characteristic humbleness. “I did what I had to do.”

Looking back on our childhoods, it is easy (wonderful, really) to remember the love and nourishment from our mothers. But today, I am driving to the grocery store for vegetables and celebrating my father with a bowl of gazpacho. 

*Photo credit: http://www.seriouseats.com/

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When he makes summer gazpacho, my father uses Sunset Magazine's basic gazpacho recipe. However, he advises, "I prefer to use red onions and I usually use more ingredients (example: a whole can of tomato juice instead of 4 cups + the entire vegetable). I also add a couple of chopped-up whole tomatoes. You might also seed the cucumbers as the seeds can be bitter."  I'd like to add that a fabulous substitute for oregano is fresh cilantro. 

Tomato Gazpacho with Avocado

Note: to keep the Gazpacho cold, add several ice cubes to each serving bowl.

1/2 cucumber, peeled if you like

1/2 mild red or white onion, peeled

1/2 avocado, peeled

1/2 teaspoon crumbled oregano

3 tablespoons olive oil

2 tablespoons wine vinegar
     (balsamic works too - but use 1 tablespoon then taste)

4 cups canned tomato juice

2 limes, cut in wedges (for serving) 

Cut off a few slices of cucumber and onion; save for garnish. Chop the rest of the cucumber and onion in small pieces; slice or chop avocado. Put onion, cucumber, avocado, oregano, oil, and vinegar in a serving bowl. Pour in the tomato juice. Top with cucumber and onion slices; chill.

Ladle into bowls, adding 2 or 3 ice cubes and lime juice to taste. Serves 1 father + 1 mother + 3 hungry girls.

The writer and her father at their favorite beach,
with their favorite terrier.