of rest, “I like sleep like a good steak.” I’m with him.
It became the family scripture that Jacob took after me and Lisa had more of Ned’s genetic gifts. Quiet, thin, serious, judgmental on my side. Fun-loving foodies on Ned’s. As a teenager, Lisa wrote to Ned one Father’s Day: “You know that I think you’re a swell dad; awesome and fun, loving and caring. People tell me that I really am my father’s daughter, and I like it that way.”
As a first-grader, Lisa wrote to me on Mother’s Day: “You are a nice mom but I would like it if you wouldn’t yell at me as much. I don’t mind if you do it sometimes. On the brite [side], you are so nice and I love you very much.”
lisa: I never considered myself a daddy’s or mommy’s girl, but I did have commonalities with each one. Mom and I could easily talk about our feelings and dissect the reasons behind our particular emotions at a certain time. Mom did all the clothing and toy shopping. She took me to get my hair cut, although that sometimes turned out badly, with Dutch-boy bangs or horrible layers. If I was sick, it was usually Mom who stayed home from work with me. My parents provided equal love, nurturing, and education. I felt equally attached and devoted.
When it came to food, however, Dad was The Man. As contradictory as it may sound for a food critic, Mom failed to display much range in her cooking. Only over the past few years has she come out of her bubble of easy meals into actually reading recipes and producing quite impressive results. Mom taught me to scramble an egg, but when we were growing up, Dad always amazed me with his creativity and skill. I developed a rather mature palate at a young age. Had Dad not been so versatile and skilled in the kitchen I probably would have joined in with most other kids who were stuffing their faces with popular junk food and nutritionally deprived packed lunches. I must have been a little bit of a dream child for Dad, who was so delighted in having a daughter with such a bodacious appetite. My brother actually refused food!
I entered Dad’s world as a pleasant surprise and quickly became his kitchen assistant. Dad used to emulate the mannerisms and unique voice of Julia Child as we’d cook together. He’d talk through the steps of the recipe as if filming a cooking show even though his only audience member stood next to him.
Around the age of seven, I felt limited by the children’s menu and proclaimed that I wished to order from the adult selections. At eight I tried, and secretly liked, escargots while on vacation in Montreal. While most kids my age considered seafood “icky” and survived mainly on spaghetti, hamburgers, cereal, and sweets, I enthusiastically accompanied my parents out to dinner. They also frequently entertained their eclectic and lively circle of friends—all with a common adoration for food—and I found myself sharing in the dining experience of goat cheese appetizers and Dad’s famous caramelized pear tarte Tatin. I even shocked strangers with my mature appetite. On an airplane to visit our family in Seattle, I asked for tomato juice and heard the passenger on Mom’s other side whisper, “Your daughter drinks tomato juice?” In fact, I drank a lot of tomato juice and V-8 and took a lot of crap at the lunch table, where sugar-laden Capri Sun was the preferred beverage.
sheila: To get decent tomatoes and stoke the kids’ interest in where food comes from, Ned signed up for a plot in the community garden. City officials had started a demonstration garden to show residents how to grow organic crops and quickly turned it over to a hungry populace. Now there are four community gardens sprinkled throughout Palo Alto.
The summer before Lisa was born, Ned and Jacob picked tomatoes, chard, zucchini, and lemon cucumbers—the kind that don’t make you burp. On the drizzly morning of October 13, 1984, Ned left me and newborn Lisa in the hospital to pick up Jacob, and
It became the family scripture that Jacob took after me and Lisa had more of Ned’s genetic gifts. Quiet, thin, serious, judgmental on my side. Fun-loving foodies on Ned’s. As a teenager, Lisa wrote to Ned one Father’s Day: “You know that I think you’re a swell dad; awesome and fun, loving and caring. People tell me that I really am my father’s daughter, and I like it that way.”
As a first-grader, Lisa wrote to me on Mother’s Day: “You are a nice mom but I would like it if you wouldn’t yell at me as much. I don’t mind if you do it sometimes. On the brite [side], you are so nice and I love you very much.”
lisa: I never considered myself a daddy’s or mommy’s girl, but I did have commonalities with each one. Mom and I could easily talk about our feelings and dissect the reasons behind our particular emotions at a certain time. Mom did all the clothing and toy shopping. She took me to get my hair cut, although that sometimes turned out badly, with Dutch-boy bangs or horrible layers. If I was sick, it was usually Mom who stayed home from work with me. My parents provided equal love, nurturing, and education. I felt equally attached and devoted.
When it came to food, however, Dad was The Man. As contradictory as it may sound for a food critic, Mom failed to display much range in her cooking. Only over the past few years has she come out of her bubble of easy meals into actually reading recipes and producing quite impressive results. Mom taught me to scramble an egg, but when we were growing up, Dad always amazed me with his creativity and skill. I developed a rather mature palate at a young age. Had Dad not been so versatile and skilled in the kitchen I probably would have joined in with most other kids who were stuffing their faces with popular junk food and nutritionally deprived packed lunches. I must have been a little bit of a dream child for Dad, who was so delighted in having a daughter with such a bodacious appetite. My brother actually refused food!
I entered Dad’s world as a pleasant surprise and quickly became his kitchen assistant. Dad used to emulate the mannerisms and unique voice of Julia Child as we’d cook together. He’d talk through the steps of the recipe as if filming a cooking show even though his only audience member stood next to him.
Around the age of seven, I felt limited by the children’s menu and proclaimed that I wished to order from the adult selections. At eight I tried, and secretly liked, escargots while on vacation in Montreal. While most kids my age considered seafood “icky” and survived mainly on spaghetti, hamburgers, cereal, and sweets, I enthusiastically accompanied my parents out to dinner. They also frequently entertained their eclectic and lively circle of friends—all with a common adoration for food—and I found myself sharing in the dining experience of goat cheese appetizers and Dad’s famous caramelized pear tarte Tatin. I even shocked strangers with my mature appetite. On an airplane to visit our family in Seattle, I asked for tomato juice and heard the passenger on Mom’s other side whisper, “Your daughter drinks tomato juice?” In fact, I drank a lot of tomato juice and V-8 and took a lot of crap at the lunch table, where sugar-laden Capri Sun was the preferred beverage.
sheila: To get decent tomatoes and stoke the kids’ interest in where food comes from, Ned signed up for a plot in the community garden. City officials had started a demonstration garden to show residents how to grow organic crops and quickly turned it over to a hungry populace. Now there are four community gardens sprinkled throughout Palo Alto.
The summer before Lisa was born, Ned and Jacob picked tomatoes, chard, zucchini, and lemon cucumbers—the kind that don’t make you burp. On the drizzly morning of October 13, 1984, Ned left me and newborn Lisa in the hospital to pick up Jacob, and
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