Sunny Side Up and Rare

When my father enjoyed a full breakfast, usually on the weekends, he liked his eggs prepared “sunny side up” with the yellow yolk staring at you like a watery eye. He would often cook breakfast for us on the weekends, giving my mother a well-deserved break after taking care of five children during the week. We really enjoyed our family breakfasts, and he did too, singing or humming merrily as he cooked. I preferred my eggs cooked a bit more – over light or medium. I would tell him this, but in his kitchen, we ate what was on his menu, no substitutions or special treatment. Scrambled eggs, never! French toast, occasionally. When I would ask for a different preparation, perhaps a little more time to cook the egg, his response was often, “Too bad about it, Ginia.” And then, he would merrily resume his singing and cooking. I begrudgingly would eat my eggs as my brother Stephen laughed. These same rules applied if you were a Rubino cousin visiting from Pennsylvania – even guests did not receive special meals. We ate what was placed on our plates. Over time, I accepted the yolk as it was presented to me, and eventually found satisfaction by dipping the toast into the yolk to absorb the liquid.

When we were old enough to really help with the breakfast, my father would say, “When I smell the coffee, I’ll get up and make breakfast.” It did not take long for us to learn how to make coffee and to enjoy drinking it, (mostly milk with a few splashes of coffee, and lots of sugar)! We would set the table and prepare the Italian Scali toast, eating in shifts as each piece of toast was ready. I can still envision the white Corelle coffee pot with a blue flower on it. We would prepare the coffee, place it on the stove, wait for it to percolate, and finally embrace its rich aroma as it emanated throughout the house. Breakfast was on its way!

On some Sundays, we would attend church with my father. He did not go regularly, but when he did, he would take us to the children’s mass in the basement of our church, Sacred Heart in North Quincy, Massachusetts. We would sit together, practically taking up the whole pew. He sat in the aisle seat, the rest of us sitting beside him. He did not sit in the middle to separate us in any way, I guess it was not necessary; we sat quietly. Although it was a children’s mass, it was not engaging, and I was often bored, and found myself daydreaming. But we remained quiet for most of the mass, looking straight ahead toward the altar, such cherubic observers! For me, everything came to life when it was time for the offering. At that time, the clinking and clanking would commence as people reached into their pockets to retrieve coins (not paper) as they prepared to make an offering to the church. My father would reach deeply into his pocket, take out a handful of coins, and open his palm to us. Did all fathers carry that many coins in their pocket? We would reach for the coins in preparation to make our offering and watch as the deacons moved down the aisle going from pew to pew, reaching their arms along the people seated, while holding onto an offering basket. Unlike the offering plates of today that we pass to each other, these were long broom-like sticks attached to reed baskets. And even though the basket was most likely lined with cloth, I could hear the coins making their own music. We gently dropped our coins in the basket and listened to the continuous sound of coins hitting coins – joyful noise. This noise created the opportunity to move a bit, maybe say a few words, and let loose some of that preserved energy. It was also an opportune time for one of us to poke another, simply to get a reaction, a reaction we had to stifle since we were in church.

My father was an outgoing man, friendly and likeable. As a true extrovert, his energy came from being around his family, his friends, and the friends of his children, interacting with everyone in a genuine, authentic way. He was not impressed easily by others and poked fun at those who put on airs. There was that one summer, though, when it all changed, and for a short time my father became a different person. It was the summer when Carl Yastrzemski, the “man we call Yaz,” and his family rented the summer house behind us. Carl Yastrzemski, the left fielder who led the Red Sox to win the American League Pennant in 1967, Triple Crown winner, and American League MVP that year, living in the house behind us! My father, a huge fan of the Boston Red Sox, could not control his excitement. Although we barely caught a glimpse of Yaz, we did see his son on many occasions that summer. The offspring of Yaz, was good enough for my father. I remember young Michael Yastrzemski, sitting on our deck as my father offered him something to drink, trying to make him feel comfortable and yielding to his every wish. There was no, “too bad about it” for Michael Yastrzemski! As astonished as I was, my brother Joe was amused, and we silently watched our father take on this new role. Who was this man? And where did my father go? It was so out of character for him, but my father could not help himself; he was truly star-struck! Michael Yastrzemski was not appreciative of it, as he was probably accustomed to this behavior in others, and shrugged it off, and as I recall, not in a gracious or polite way. I am not sure if my father even noticed it or felt disrespected, but we did, and it did not leave us with a good impression.

Later, in college years and beyond, when my friends and I visited my parents, my father cheerfully greeted and chatted with us, and often grilled something later for everyone to enjoy. Whether he knew them or not, he was warm and welcoming, and connected with ease. After leaving the beach, my friends would engage in conversation with him as he grilled burgers, while my mother remained in the background, quietly reading a book, or simply refueling in the way introverts like to refuel. After lingering lazily in the sun for many hours, we were thrilled to have someone cook for us; what a finish to a spectacular summer day! Not surprising, my father liked his burgers cooked rare. Asking for special orders could have been an option, but feeling ravenous from the sun and water, we ate what he offered happily and gratefully. When we found pleasure in his food, he too, was satisfied. If we had asked for a medium or well-done burger, would he have said, “too bad about it,” in his true, authentic way, while grilling and flipping burgers and singing his favorite Sinatra song? Perhaps, and if so, that would have been just fine.