Broccoli

The dad I grew up with was a workaholic. He knew he had to get things done in order to keep food on the table and a roof over our heads. He didn’t let bad weather or bad moods get in the way. “I don’t want to” wasn’t an acceptable excuse. Even for him. He did it because it had to be done. Because of it, we typically saw a more serious side of Dad. Don’t get me wrong, we had fun moments, but the norm was more calm and mellow.

As Dad got older and started renting out the farm and selling the cows, his mood became lighter and random spurts of pure, unadulterated silliness burst forth. These moments became the highlights of my memories with Dad. I remember telling this particular story to my siblings soon after it happened and got the response, “Wait. Our dad did that?” I’m sure they were all jealous of me being the youngest child and thus getting to grow up with the best part of our Dad. Or maybe I’m just biased. :D



Mom, Dad, and I were sitting at the dinner table one day. It was a typical dinner. Meat, potatoes, veggies. We sat there, mostly silent, eating our food. Here and there we’d talk, telling about our days or whatnot.

At one point Dad reached for seconds of broccoli. Problem was, he still had broccoli on his plate. I felt the need to point this out to him. “Dad, why are you getting more broccoli? You still have some.” To my surprise, he started coming up with the most ridiculous of excuses. “These ones are my friends.” “These ones taste better, so I want to save them for last.” Even mom chimed in and came up with other ridiculous sentiments. We all laughed and went on with dinner.

You think that’s the end of it. And that would have been fun. But it probably wouldn’t have stuck in my memory. Oh no, it gets better. So much better.

Dinner was silent again for awhile when out of nowhere Dad grabs his fork and with murder in his eyes (ok, perhaps I’m overdramatizing just a tad) started attacking the broccoli on his plate. I’m not kidding when I say attacking. This wasn’t an attempt to spear some stubborn broccoli onto his fork. Oh no. This was a full-fledged attack.

Mom and I stared at each other, then at Dad, then back to each other. “Wha-- Dad?”

As calm as can be he looked me straight in the eye and said, “It was pulling faces at me.” He then proceeded to calmly eat his broccoli. Mom and I stared open mouthed at each other. Who was this man sitting at the table with us?

Dad turned to me one more time, a little bit of fatherly sternness in his eyes. “Don’t you ever pull faces at me.”

My eyes still tear up with glee every time I hear the word ‘broccoli’.