Saying “I Love You” Through Paprika Cremas

I don’t write about my dad very often. I don’t write about my dad ever, actually. Maybe it’s because I relish the connection and conflict my mother and I delve into, maybe it’s because my sister is more relatable and interesting to talk about. It’s not that I love him any less than the others, we’ve just never had a relationship as close as the ones I’ve forged with my mother and sister. We’ve always communicated through small talk and shared music taste and venting to each other on car rides to the market, but nothing more. Until now. 

With quarantine came many changes in my life, but the biggest one is how often my dad is around the house. He works from home, he watches sports in the living room in the afternoon, and he cooks dinner for us every night, which, for as mundane and normal as it all sounds, are far from normal occurrences in my household. Having him home all the time, I feel obligated to get to know him better, share more about my life with him. Initially, my failed attempts at small talk and sharing updates about the college application process sank into the ever-growing abyss of confusion: why is my dad so hard to talk to? Does he know I love him? I wanted to give up on the direct forms of communication and opt to let him see only the successful parts of my life. We felt more like roommates than family, and that’s when I knew I had to try harder.

So I offered to help him cook one night. It was simple: fried chicken. He had never fried anything in our kitchen before—he had never had the time—but he was there and I was helping him and we stood and looked at the stovetop baffled, everything about our situation was so new. And imperfect. Within minutes, we started a small fire in the kitchen when a paper towel got too close to the gas burner. We messed up the coating of the chicken strips, dipping them in too much flour, not enough egg, and the whole thing was a flaky, paprika-spiced mess.  The first time I cooked with my dad was a disaster, but it was something new. I felt closer to him than I had in a long time, and I was craving more. 

Cooking with my dad became a regular occurrence. In an attempt to grow closer with him, to learn something about him, I’d volunteer myself to be his sous chef. He’d say yes every time. From pasta to pork burgers, my dad would let me help in the kitchen and learn from him. 

We use food as our way to communicate. Him letting me chop the vegetables using the big knife translates to “I trust you, it’s okay.” He offers life lessons while we wait for honey biscuits to cool, in the form of cooking techniques. He encourages me to make the most of my youth, to keep taking advantage of my opportunities and the newness of the world. He’s proud of me, the paprika-lime cremas and chicken bakes and tater tots told me so. I have never talked to my dad as continuously and complexly as I do when we’re preparing dinner. With every new meal comes a new life lesson, a new opportunity to learn from and about him, a moment to feel closer to my dad than I had previously. We bond over the meals we create and the satisfaction of trying something different every time we can. 

Cooking during quarantine and the way it’s helped me connect with my dad has been an unexpected silver lining. I find myself constantly looking for new recipes we can try and ways to innovate our family favorite meals. We’re less stiff and cordial with one another, we’ve been through enough burned pieces of toast and undercooked mishaps to know better. There are still moments where my dad is unfamiliar to me, but instead of looking at him as an enigma, I trust that, through cooking, I’ll continue to learn all that I can. At the very least, I tell him “I love you” through the ways the scallions are chopped, the pastries are folded, and the smile that punctuates every meal.