Bear with me — there are recipes at the end of the tunnel.
When someone you love dies, you enter a well-trodden stretch known as the year of “firsts.” People who’ve experienced this loss describe a series of milestones: the first birthday without them, the first holiday, the first time you notice an empty chair. Each occasion carries the weight of “this is the first year that ______ hasn’t been at ___________.”
For our family, those firsts began even before my father passed, during the six months between diagnosis and the end. We experienced the first time he wasn’t at Thanksgiving, his favorite holiday. My mother and sister took him to the hospital. I watched as they closed the ambulance doors, and I turned back to the house where we had 30 guests waiting. I stayed behind to host, knowing it might be the last Thanksgiving and hoping for the best.
Well-meaning relatives and friends pitched in to reheat dishes, make gravy, and follow my lead. I slipped into the role of cheerful hostess, pouring wine, delegating tasks, and assuring everyone that he would want us to carry on. I pretended everything was okay while my hands shook carving the turkey — a task he always handled.
There were other firsts: the first time he missed the office holiday party, the first grandchild performance he couldn’t attend. Now he is gone, and the official year of firsts stretches ahead like an emotional obstacle course, each event a reminder of absence.
My father was brilliant, generous, and very hard to please. I always felt I had a chance to win his approval in the kitchen. When he dug into a piece of apple streusel pie or a plate of ribs and smiled, that pleasure felt deeply validating. In the acknowledgements of my book I wrote that “my parents’ opinions matter to me more than anyone else’s, with the exception of my husband.” I don’t think that’s always healthy, but it’s true.
One of the earliest, most difficult firsts is approaching: the first Father’s Day without my dad. The reality still refuses to sink in. Yet I know that when I cook for Gary this coming Sunday, I will still be cooking for my dad as well — in memory, in habit, and in the flavors they both loved. Fortunately, both of them adored pie.
A Father’s Day Menu for Gary
Below are a few comforting dishes and a simple dessert to help mark the day. They’re meant to be easy, nourishing, and familiar — food that honors memory without demanding perfection.
Starter
Simple seasonal salad with mixed greens, sliced stone fruit or tomatoes, toasted nuts, crumbled cheese, and a light vinaigrette. It’s bright, effortless, and a good way to open the meal without overpowering the main course.
Main Course
Slow-roasted ribs or a roast chicken with herbs — dishes that can simmer gently while you spend time with the people who matter. Pair with roasted vegetables and a creamy gratin or buttery mashed potatoes, depending on what your guests prefer.
Side
Grilled or roasted asparagus tossed with lemon and olive oil, or a warm grain salad with herbs and roasted vegetables. These sides are straightforward to prepare and can be kept warm until you’re ready to serve.
Dessert
Apple streusel pie or a rustic fruit galette — familiar, comforting desserts that evoke family traditions. Serve with whipped cream or a scoop of vanilla ice cream for a simple, satisfying finish.
Food doesn’t erase grief, but it does anchor us. Preparing a meal can be a way to remember, to celebrate, and to show care. On this first Father’s Day without my dad, I’ll set a place at the table in his honor, cook the dishes he liked, and share stories between bites.
May your gatherings be gentle, your memories present, and your table full of the flavors that bring you home.