By Ian Sherr
My father can cook. Or so he says.
I grew up hearing stories of how my father wooed my mother by cooking her fabulous dinners and serving them to her over his grand piano in his tiny Washington, D.C. apartment.
The story, as my father tells it, was that his apartment was too small to hold a table and his piano and, being a world-class concert pianist, he chose the piano. So he bought a cover for the piano and fed his dates. I imagine he probably serenaded them, too, but the details have been lost both to time and trailing mumbled memories.
Still, what I’ve been brought up to believe is that my father can cook. And my mother – she grew up in Atlanta in the ’40s. Of course she can cook.
So what shocked my girlfriend, Laura, was that Thanksgiving this year was going to be catered by Marie Callender’s.
I said my parents could cook. I didn’t say they did.