My father died more than 20 years ago, long before his time. The moment of his death is still very clear in my mind. Later I sat with my mother in the upstairs hall, both of us in our nightgowns, averting our eyes as they brought him out in a dark green body bag. I can't say those images have faded, but they are often crowded out by happier thoughts of him as he was in life: the consummate prankster, a sly grin twisting his mouth, a deeply compassionate man, a generous spirit, a scholar. As Father's Day approaches, I long to tell him what has become of me, to seek his approval. Some things never change. He was most often at his desk, talking on the phone with colleagues, proofing manuscripts, scribbling away with the tiny pencil stubs he favored. Intrusions were not wholly unwelcome, especially if you came bearing a small snack. He loved nuts. His favorites were cashews, pistachios, peanuts and Spanish almonds; also hard licorice, chicharrones and chicken liver. In his honor, I post again my recipe for Tuscan chicken liver paté—a shout-out to both his humble Jewish roots and his later-acquired European sophistication.
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