You Can Leave Your Hat On

Pictured on the left is one of my dad’s many hats. He was a hat guy, always looking even more dapper and larger than life with his toppers. And always with a bit of a wry grin, a whimsical smile, as if to say, “you know I’m just messin’ with you a bit.”

I, on the other hand, am not a hat guy. Never was. Just never could pull off that insouciant look. But I wear dad’s hat when I’m cooking (as well as the cooler (as in less not) straw hat pictured on the right. I tell myself the rational is about hygiene, keeping hair well contained while cooking. But who am I kidding? I got enough hair on my hand maybe maybe maybe to contaminate one dish a week. Maybe.

So no, I think the rationale lies elsewhere, as it often does, in some deep-seated memories of my dad, channeling his presence while I cook. Which is frankly a bit weird, because Dad never ever cooked. Well, he cooked once a year, making the traditional breakfast matzah brei (scrambled egg in a wet matzah mix) ever Passover. Dad’s matzha brei was noted for being extremely and I mean extremely salty. And we all loved it. Not enough to ask him to cook for us the rest of the year. But still. For one meal, for one time every year, my dad the cook was king. Good enough reason to channel him, no?