Shaking lettuce

As I stood over the sink, shaking off the excess water from the lettuce, I thought of my dad. It's how he did it, when he could. He was a great cook, we ate so well and despite the stories of hideous meals my mother would cook, I only ever really remember eating well. And the joy of saying, "my dad cooks our meals" and watching the surprised and often confused looks of those who didn't understand why my mum wasn't doing it.
My mum's cooking was, by all account terrible, but I suspect it was just very average and she didn't enjoy it, she still doesn't.
They struck a deal the two of them, there is a story to go with that too, about driving round the block multiple times, until she saw his car... first one in cooked.
Now I think of it there is the other story to dad's uptake of cooking... this one goes: He was so full of the intellectual he needed something to do, do with his hand. "cook the bloody dinner then" was my mother's response to his existential crisis. I love my mum for that.
We all did, me, my brother and sister don't know or care what the truth of the stories might be but we do know that dad loved cooking. Even though VHL has taken away his ability to do the finer work, he still tries to have a sense of it from time to time.
I suspect if he really put his mind to it there would be enough gadgets and ways for him to continue to cook, at least physical supports. Trouble is, are there emotional supports?
He would make great food and we didn't even realise just how lovely it was sometimes. On occasion we would have a takeaway, but the rest of the time he made delicious, nutritious food, meals. Often we'd get a starter.
He would watch food programmes, I loved Floyd, I still get nostalgic watching the greats. He would read cookery books and we would reap the benefits.
Often on a Saturday he would spend the whole day preparing for a dinner party, we'd search and search for the necessary ingredient. This treasure hunt was so much harder then, supermarkets didn't have aisles and sections dedicated to world food. Sometimes his hunt would take us to shops in alleyways with funny smells and people who didn't speak English. In a small coastal town in Norfolk this was the closest thing to multiculturalism I knew.  Our cupboards were full of ingredients that were used once or twice then they gradually made their way back to the back of the cupboard they had been banished to.
When I decide to be vegetarian, he took it in his stride, researched. Mine and his first taste of bulgar wheat. My vegetarianism didn't last long.
We ate a sumptuous Sunday lunch every week. When he was ill or had left us, my mum maintained this expectation. It felt wrong not to do it, the weekend routine was set in stone. The only break from this were holidays and visits to family. I think I've listed the specific of what went with what meat on here before. This too always the same.Once he put a lemon in a chicken instead of the stuffing he made. I felt angry, let down. It tasted wonderful, moist and suited the heat of the summers day, but I was still disappointed. That stuffing was the best you've ever known.

Today is Sunday. I've spent a huge amount of it working - I'm not feeling on top of my work. My husband is away, it's just me and the little one.
I'm making falafel, its something we do well as a family.
I'll go and finish it off soon and we'll eat... each Sunday is different for us. It's hard to muster up the energy to cook a Sunday roast when there are just three of you and one is vegetarian.
I need a guest or two to make it worth while...
those who know me and are reading this - if you've got this far ask for an invitation... I would love to try and make a stuffing  as good as my dad's for you.