As a child, I thought my mom was the best cook. Paprika was her spice of choice and, other than that, most meals were bland. But that meant no strong, offensive flavours. One morning, when my mother wasn’t around, my father made toast for me and he didn’t butter it right. He left the outside edges dry and one side was burnt. I refused to eat the abomination he had served me and kicked up such a fuss he had to eat it himself and make me another one. Other than barbecuing, he didn’t cook. But he introduced me to one of the best treats ever: ice cream floats. He’d scoop vanilla ice cream into the blender and then would pour in ginger ale, making sure it didn’t bubble over the top. He’d whirl the machine and then would slide the thick deliciousness into tall glasses. I loved the gingery sweet flavour and relished every lump of ice cream that had evaded the blades. I don’t indulge in them often but I always think of Dad when I do.
Debi