I think and write about my father a lot, in all sorts of random contexts -- have been doing it for years. I don't imagine that changing any time soon. Tomorrow marks eighteen years since his death, more than half my lifetime ago.
Evan is chopping vegetables up in the kitchen behind me, preparing them for roasting and eventually for lasagna: a late Sunday supper made with his homemade ricotta and accompanied by a bottle of Spanish red from our beloved little wine shop just across the street.
My father would appreciate this ending to a beautiful spring Sunday, and he would chuckle at what I bought, completely on impulse, for dessert: Ciao Bella malted milk ball ice cream. Because man, did he love malted anything, and man did I ever inherit that from him. (You should've seen me the last time I was in Bud's Big Burgers in St. Maries, Idaho, shamelessly attempting to flirt with the waitress just to get more malt in my chocolate malted.)
It's nice to imagine laughing with him over a pint of ice cream.