My dad liked to cook. He wasn't the best cook, but he reslly tried. I don't have many good memories of him, but I have a couple of them a few days before his passing.

One Sunday afternoon, he cooked for my mom and I. He bought two bottles of white wine, because he knew I dislike red wine. He insisted so much I had a glass with him in the days prior, that even if I didn't really feel like drinking that day, I indulged him. That day he was pretty calm. So I stayed a little longer than usual after lunch, we had tea with cookies, and we just chatted about anything. No screams. No insults. For a moment there, it felt almost normal.

Later that week, he insisted I came over for dinner. It had been a couple of days since I'd seen him, and I was in a lot of physical pain. When I got there, it was late, and I had class in the morning. He told me it wouldn't take him too long to finish, but it took him over an hour to make a homemade tomato sauce for the pasta. As he came over to the table with the food and started serving my plate, he said and for some reason it stuck with me "Cooking is a gift of the self to others." I think the reason why it did is because he seldom displayed selflessness. I hope you RIP