Three scents will always remind me of my father: the Permatex I could find sitting in a puddle of soap scum at the shop, the wood shavings from his circular saw, and the salted maybe-ham that the world knows as SPAM. On Sunday mornings, he would tie his apron and sing Sinatra while frying Something Posing as Meat. He never gave up trying to feed our poor mother’s cabinet doors as he plopped it on the cutting board. We huddled together behind the sofa, for once putting aside our GI Joe and Barbie woes to hide from our father’s spoils. With a mouth full, he called it a luxury and ignored our gagging pleas as the smell of salted meat seeped into our meal of pilfered peanut butter and Saltine crackers.
Six Servings Per Can
