It is a truth universally acknowledged that my mother is an excellent cook. She is a master with fish. She is a whiz with cauliflower. She used to make us the most beautiful birthday cakes (before we began demanding ice cream cakes from Baskin Robbins, silly children that we were). However, she started her own business when I was still toddling around the house, drawing on the walls. This meant that she often didn’t have time to make dinner, sometimes she didn’t get home until we’d already gone to bed, and I have vague memories of her coming in late and kissing me goodnight.

So our father cooked many of our weeknight meals. Like many fathers, he is excellent with red meat. Sitting here, 3000 miles away, I can picture his hands forming ground beef into hamburgers, kneading in sauce and molding the patties. My dad also makes a superlative omelet. Oftentimes, when it was just he and I at home he would make a large cheese omelet for us to share in a perfectly seasoned cast-iron skillet he and my mom received as a wedding present. The only desert I can ever remember him making (besides scooping ice cream …]