Dad married Mom when he was nearing 40 years on earth, enough time surely to have learned how to cook; however a single instance during growing up years disproves this hypothesis.
Dad cooked a chicken on the Sears Roebuck grill he purchased, I believe, as an art object. It was a spiffy looking thing, green, sleek and bigger than a small horse, more like a miniature WWII tank.
What gave this endeavour some uumph were the number of requests he made. Dad asked assistance of Mom, brother Eric, brother Mark and I more during the cooking of this chicken than he had done during our entire youth. This was the most over-indulged poultry ever put to pot. Ultimately, the chicken was undercooked and we didn’t eat it but it was a stunning effort.
Subsequently Dad stuck to making BLACK COWs. His comprised fantasy. Hires root beer and Prince Castle vanilla ice cream met in glass mugs on summer nights like sweethearts, like fated sweethearts, like long-separated sweethearts.