Happy Me Day!

Did I ever tell you the story about the fettuccine alfredo? No? Pull up a chair.

The year was 1997 and tenth grade me took a girl out on a date to Uno's. Don't laugh, but both of us came from "humble" upbringings, so Uno's was fancy to us at the time. Now keep in mind that my upbringing was so full of humility that I didn't have my first steak until I was nineteen. If you can understand that, then this next part won't make you laugh too much. I wanted to impress the girl, so I ordered what sounded like a fancy dish to me: Blackened Chicken Fettuccine Alfredo. I didn't know what the hell it was. I honestly expected something that looked like a cornish hen with some type of fancy stuffing inside. I thought that maybe "fe-too-seen" was some kind of cheese. (Go ahead and laugh)

Obviously, I was surprised when a plate of noodles in some kind of white sauce was put down in front of me with cut-up pieces of chicken inside. I hid my surprise, however, and played along when the waiter asked if I wanted him to grate some cheese into it. "Of course, it's not complete without that." In my head, I was thinking, "At least I was right about "fe-too-seen" being a kind of cheese. (It wasn't)

The rest of the date isn't even worth mentioning. We went to the movies. I walked her home. Blah, blah, blah. All that stands out is how good that fettuccine was. I don't know why this is true, but people often remember their first experience with something as better than it actually was. I went back to that Uno's many times and never came across another plate that was as good as that first time. Hell, I've had alfredo of much better quality from dozens of places over the years, but for some reason that first time stands out to me as the best thing I'd ever tasted. That is until about a few months ago.

I learned how to make a decent alfredo sauce from scratch several years ago. It's not hard, but I have my bougie moments, so the super expensive parmesan isn't always in my budget. One particular day, however, I made some and it was phenomenal. Heaven and Earth moved, and Gabriel blew his trumpet when I stirred that spoon in the pot the last time. It was finished. And you know what? It was WAY better than that meal I remembered from Uno's all those years ago.

I had just enough left over for the next day. It was so good that I decided to forgo it at lunch and just wait to eat it for dinner. It's sad, but I looked forward to it all day. I fantasized about it on the way home from my daughter's daycare. We got home and I heated up the last of her favorite meal, smoked sausage and macaroni and cheese casserole. She had her plate at the table and I started heating up mine. I heated it up on stove just because it was too good to go into a microwave. I put my garlic bread in the oven and about five minutes later, I was ready.

I got to the table and as I sat down I noticed that my daughter's plate was completely empty. It was like that scene in Jurassic Park when the raptors ate the cow. I swear that there were teeth marks in the plate. "Oh, you're done? Well, you can go look at TV." But she didn't move. Instead she gave me the same look that she had on her face before she started eating. It's the "Feed the Children" look. "Can I have some more?"

"Oh, I'm sorry sweetie. That was it. You ate a whole plate."
"Hungry. Can I have some more?"
"You ate all of it. That's it. There is no more."
"Pasta?"

I could lie and write something funny about how I had an internal debate. "You can make more kids. This pasta is unique!" But the truth is that there was no debate. The look on her face was sincere. She was still hungry. It was a growth spurt. She ate all of her leftovers and outside of giving her a hot dog, which I try to limit to once every week or two, there wasn't much left in the fridge that I could whip up right away. The sequence of events went like this:

My brain: I'm about to ____ this pasta UP!!!
Her: Hungry. Can I have more? Pasta?
Me: [Pushing plate of pasta to her and replacing adult fork with her toddler fork] Here you go.

I didn't think about it. I just gave it to her. A few minutes later,  I was eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and she was making cave paintings on the table with alfredo covered fingers.

(What is the point of this story?)
It's Father's Day. When I think about what it means to be her father, I think about that alfredo. Someone once crudely told me that love is sacrifice. Although I know what the word means, I still reject it due to the negative connotations associated with it. There is no hesitance or difficulty in making decisions when it comes to her. I don't feel like I'm giving up anything. Whatever I have I gladly give. It's not calculated, it's not in exchange for praise or reward. It's instinctual. I don't think. Short of raising a tyrant, I exist to make sure she's happy and taken care of. And I absolutely love it.

I absolutely love her.