The water is raging boiling and I pour a couple of cups of rotini into the bowl. Seven minutes it will be perfect, maybe with a touch of oil. It wasn't until I stirred the pot with my fork in a way I've heard before - hundreds of times. I'm eating my dad's meal.
I'm instantly proud. And longing to call him and tell him that maybe I'm a little like him. I did learn something. First thing tomorrow.