B-B-Q Spaghetti

Trisha Vogan
R.W.Adv.Essays
Dr. Benton
Personal Essay
B-B-Q Spaghetti

It is an often occurrence. Every time he comes home it’s to be expected. My father has always worked for jobs where he would be gone for days, weeks, months at a time. He loves to cook and never gets to while he’s on the road, or drink for that matter; so the first day he arrives home expect a meal, but never ordinary, something he creates in his intoxicated mind. Inebriated as he often is at home, these creations sound and smell good to him, however, are most always farthest from the truth to the rest of us. It would not be out of the ordinary for myself to have friends over, for we never quite knew when he would arrive, and he preferred it this way. All my friends can attest to the many nights of meals never quite heard of and taste buds not quite ready for. The story I’m about to tell, however, luckily, it was just the family at home that night. I arrived home with my little brother and my stomach dropped as soon as I saw his truck, I still get the same feeling to this day when I see a truck like his. First let me tell you a little about this man they call my father and the reason he makes my stomach drop.
My father is the oldest of three. His mother, my grandmother, was always sick so my dad had to learn to cook to feed his father and brothers, or they would starve. As he learned to cook he found that he also enjoyed it and it soon became a hobby. He joined the army as soon as he could and took off to Germany. Now my father is not a gentle man, he’s not someone you can get close to, share thoughts or feelings, or weakness. He has been diagnosed with Bi-Polar disease and he has the greatest love for alcohol, which we come from a LONG line of alcoholics, so it makes sense. But these two together make for a lethal, if not deadly, combination. My father was also a victim of abuse and has extreme anger issues that he just doesn’t know how to deal with. He has put one of his brothers in a coma, luckily he did come out of it, but they still haven’t spoken since. My father has been in jail several times, for reasons that would make you squirm in your seat. He has had many DUI’s and has had to pay many fines for unspeakable crimes. I tell you all this to give you some insight. This is not the normal loving father making his doting family a nice dinner; this is a drunken man fooling around, making messes in the kitchen.
Now usually his meals are not too shabby, in fact he tends to be a pretty good cook. The dinner that sticks most out in my mind would be the B-B-Q Spaghetti fiasco. I can remember that night as clearly as if it were last night. I pulled into our driveway coming home from school. It was me and my brother, Brent, who is six years younger than myself. I saw his truck, the big black bull, and my stomach dropped…he was home. A sick feeling waved over me and I just knew all my plans for the afternoon would have to vanish. My brother on the other hand, his face lit up with excitement. He has different feelings than I do toward my father. He has seen a different person and was too young to realize what our father really was. We got out of the car, and as I was taking my sweet time, Brent ran to the door. I said a prayer as I walked to the door, hoping my mom wouldn’t be in tears by the time I got to her. When I got to the door I opened it and my nostrils were met by an unfamiliar and not a practically enticing fragrance.
I stepped into the house and saw the big screen was on the music channel, playing some 80’s song, and the volume was up full blast….”yep, he’s drunk”, I thought to myself. I walked in further into the kitchen to see the refrigerator door wide open and almost completely empty inside. On the counter were an empty bottle of KC Masterpiece Original Barbecue Sauce, and other empty bottles of Tabasco and Louisiana Hot Sauce, along with half empty bottles of ketchup, relish, and soy sauce. I saw many other condiments but didn’t take a good look at the rest, though there were a lot. The table was just as cluttered with other items taken from the refrigerator. You could smell the tension on the room, along with the pot of boiling water and beer. My father stood there, dancing to his music and splashing this mystery sauce everywhere. There stood a 20 pack of Coors Light at his feet, his Silver Bullet.
My little brother ran up to him, so thrilled upon his arrival, and wrapped his arms around my father’s waist. My dad was quick to turn around with a sour look upon his face. “Brent, what are you doing, can’t you see I’m cooking, it’s hot!” he screamed at my brother. The temperature was hot in the room and my dads temper was too. Brent scurried away like a wounded puppy and that’s when he spotted me. I swallowed the lump that had been caught in my throat and forced a smile. “Hi”, I said, meek and shy, trying my best not to make him mad. I was relieved when he smiled. My dad’s smile could brighten a room, for they were rare and hard to come by. He asked me to come take a taste of his special “B-B-Q Spaghetti”. I walked slowly, hoping he would change his mind. If this stuff tasted anywhere close to how it smelt I had to do I could to keep from throwing up. I closed my eyes and opened my mouth as he lowered the spatula to my mouth. The taste was something I’d never tasted before, something that didn’t belong. Nothing went together and it was as if I was swallowing oil and water, it did not taste good. As the warm goo slide down my throat I opened my eyes and forced a smile. “Mmmmmmm that was good”, I lied. Then came the entourage of questions, as the meals always did. See my father is a perfectionist, at least when it comes to his food, and he wanted us to bow down to it, to appreciate every morsel and to never quit complementing him and his cuisine. In reply to his many questions, “What does it need? What is it missing? What could make it better? What would be a good side dish with it? Does it need more salt, more pepper?” My answer to everything was yes, it was amazing, no one could make it better, and I love it! I had to say it in a way that he bought it. If it came off sarcastic bad things would happen. I was not the only one he expected this from, it had to come from all of us: My mom, my sister, me, and my brother.
He bought it, so it was time to clean his mess and set the table. I remember when he announced its completion; we all looked at each other in fear. We all had our designated spots and sat there, while my mother poured everyone’s drink. Thank God we would have something to wash this awful stuff down. He set the boiling pot of brown liquid in front of me and the pot of noodles beside it. The sauce looked like boiling milk chocolate, but tasted nothing close to that. The sauce mixed with the mushy noodles, they were overcooked, was a sight and smell to behold. The family was reluctant to dig in, everyone except my brother, who had no reservations about the meal, my dad had made it so it must be good, was good enough to him. My dad was on to us, so he slammed his fists onto the table and jumped up. He said if we didn’t want to eat it then don’t. Don’t appreciate him and all he’s done, don’t be thankful we have food on the table when many a night he and his family didn’t. It was the same ole’ spill that we don’t care for or appreciate anything from him or that he does. We apologized and he cooled off. We all got small portions and ate quickly, saying how full we were and thanked him for such a delectable meal. That triggered something in him that we like to call the “Hulk Within”. He grabbed our couch and threw it on its back, then turned toward us and punched the wall, leaving a fist size hole in it. His knuckles were bleeding and he came back to the table, face red. My mom started to cry, which happens at least twice every time my dad comes home; my brother than got second, in fear that it was him that set my father off. I looked my dad straight in the eyes and pushed my seat back. I told him I was going to my room, so I got up and did just that, not looking back.
I locked my door behind me and turned on the light. I turned on my CD player and put in my Zoë Girl CD, a girl Christian music group, and reached for my bible on the floor beside my bed. Tears welled up in my eyes and I soon heard a knock on the door. It was my sister and mom at the door, telling me my father had passed out on the other couch, the on that hadn’t been flipped over, and that they wanted to be with me in my room. My mom apologized, as she always does, and my sister and I just rolled our eyes, as we always do. We prayed together and soon parted ways to get ready for bed. My dad left that next morning before I even got up for school and it would be another month before we’d see him again. I was relieved.
I recall this story not for the violent details or harsh actions, but for the spaghetti. As odd as that sounds that is what I remember most from that night. His outbursts and violent behavior were a norm, and still are. I remember planning my wedding and debating whether or not I wanted him to walk me down the isle or even be present. My father is who he is and I only pray he changes before he dies. I love him very much and thank him, for if he wasn’t who he is I wouldn’t be who I am today. I have many memories and stories to tell about him, but they’ll have to wait until another day, but until then we’ll always have B-B-Q Spaghetti.