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My father is an artiste.
My father speaks: Yiddish, German, some kind of strange French that make native French speakers think he is mentally disabled, Spanish, and his own creation of English. For a party he once cooked a huge four fish tureen (including the heads) which had a gelatinous mold outer coating. He told the children there that it was made of whale brains. My father once emerged from his stained glass studio bleeding from both palms. I am dead serious. He said he cut himself on a glass piece, but I have my suspicions. After all, he dreamt about Salvador Dali the night before he died. Naturally, whenever I have a big decision to make, I call my father And he writes to me. |
