Bonding and bolognese: My dad taught me ‘to be a parent is to love your child ... simply because they are’

It didn’t take long for us to develop a routine that involved me testing my totally novice cooking skills on him, and him making me mini versions of one of his favorite classic cocktails he called “minhattans.” Sometimes he would email me in the middle of the day, presumably on his Blackberry that he refused to give up long after everyone had moved on to iPhones, and say, “do we have rye? The whisky. Not the bread.” And he’d attach a link to a rye Aperol cocktail featured in Bon Appetit. “I’d like to try this out. You game?”

On Sundays, we’d make a menu in preparation of our weekly viewing of “The Sopranos.” We’d eat Bolognese, watching the mob drama sitting next to my real life Midwest Tony Soprano, slurping the extra wide noodle he’d read were best for carrying the sauce. One night, with dreams of being a chef, I made him crab cakes and sauteed collard greens, plating and garnishing and calling it Southern Fusion as I served him the finished dish. He called it the best thing he’d ever eaten. I assure you it was not.

He’d leave coffee for me on the counter when he left for work, knowing I wouldn’t wake for another four hours in a scramble to get to my very important position at the neighborhood tanning salon. It was, most of the time, accompanied by a note that said something like, “give it a nuke, it’ll still be good. Love, ol’ Dad.”

Some days he’d bellow from his chair in the living room, where he’d sit with the latest edition of Caribbean magazine. “Whit, come check this out.” And we’d spend the next hour plotting how we were going to buy a plot of land in St. Lucia or Nevis, and open an eco-friendly lodge that featured solar energized huts like the ones highlighted on the glossy pages, fully confident we could execute it better.

That winter, we must have watched “Pulp Fiction” 47 times, exclaiming to each other, “that’s cuz you’re a bad mother f**ker” when performing mundane and unimpressive tasks, though he always did a better Samuel L. Jackson impression than me. While making chicken one night, he complained, “You know, Whit. Chicken doesn’t even taste like chicken anymore.” And he was right. So, we set out to find a farm in North Carolina, raising Poulet Rouge and ordered a $16 free-range chicken before Whole Foods was slapping those words on anything with wings. The roast chicken we made from Saveur magazine was tender and savory and perfect. He was comically pleased with himself.

I let him smoke cigars in the house — a habit that was strictly an “only on Christmas” special privilege. We ate meals on our laps with paper napkins, immaculately cleaning every crumb of our bad behavior before my mom returned from Key West. His company was unmatched. I’ve never wanted to hang out with someone more then, or since.

He taught me a lot that winter. Though I never followed in his love for Kraft singles, the wrappers of which you’d find stuffed in his jeans pocket before you threw them in the washer, he did teach me to:

But by far the most important lesson I learned was this: to be a parent is to love your child, not because of what they do or do not do — simply because they are.

I continued to massively mess up that winter and he’d be there, steadfast, flipping the lamp on behind me if I were reading in the fading light. I’d fall asleep on the couch and wake up covered by an old knitted afghan that was a staple in our living room. If we were out running errands and stopped for gas, he’d squeegee my windshield and he was never too busy to shovel a path to my car in the heavy snow. With each wordless action, teaching me the very foundation of love.

In one of our conversations in his last couple weeks, stricken by a serious UTI that was wreaking havoc on his cognitive function, he said, “Whit, I love you between two meals.” I smiled because, well, what is forever besides a collection of moments between two meals?

On Aug. 28, 2024, my dad passed away due to complications from a 2016 cancer diagnosis. Today, instead of being drowned by grief, which I know will come, I am choosing to swim in a seemingly bottomless pool of gratitude. Floating on memories, buoyed by indispensable lessons, and swallowed in love. Grateful that in this limitless universe, on this eternal timeline, somehow the algorithm decided we should spend 42 years together and a couple months side by side with a bowl of Bolognese.

Whitney Kling is a self-taught chef, writer and recipe developer who lives in Southwest Ohio with her four kids, two cats and a food memoir that’s ever-nearing completion. If she’s not playing tennis or at a yoga class, she’s in the kitchen creating something totally addictive - and usually writing about it.

TURKEY BOLOGNESE

Back in 2003, my dad and I took zero shortcuts. We sourced beef and pork locally and shopped for the best brand of San Marzano tomatoes. Our Sundays sprawled out before us like a leisurely stroll through a cobblestoned Italian village, with Bolognese as our only to-do. Nowadays, I feed four hungry kids. And they would prefer dinner on the table over me waxing poetic about, well…anything. So I’ve sped up the process and streamlined the ingredients. Either way, one of them always shouts, “I could drink this!” as they suck up a saucy noodle.

Prep Time: 15 minutes

Cook Time: 50 Minutes

Servings: 10, I freeze half

¼ cup olive oil

4 carrots, peeled and diced

4 stalks celery, diced

1 yellow onion, chopped

8 large cloves garlic, chopped

1 T Kosher salt

½ t red pepper flakes

2 lbs 93% lean ground turkey

6 oz tomato paste

2 28 oz cans whole tomatoes

½ c red wine

½ c half and half, optional*

Warm the olive oil over medium heat in a large, deep saute pan. Add the carrots, celery, onion, and garlic; being careful to add the garlic last so it won’t brown and turn bitter. Let the vegetables cook until soft and glossy, stirring occasionally, about 10-12 minutes. Stir in the salt and red pepper flakes. Add the ground turkey, stirring occasionally. Once the turkey is cooked through, stir in the tomato paste. Let that mixture cook for about 10 minutes until most liquid has evaporated and the tomato paste is evenly distributed. Add the tomatoes and wine, breaking the tomatoes up with a wooden spoon in the pan. Let simmer for 20-30 minutes to thicken, all the thin or clear liquid should be gone. The simmering time will vary depending on how watery your tomatoes were. Remove from heat and taste for seasoning, I usually add 1 t salt at the end to wake up all the flavors. Serve over your favorite pasta with a sprinkle of Pecorino Romano cheese and fresh basil. My dad would have never skipped the cheese.

*Traditional bolognese calls for half and half or cream, which you may add. Nine times out of ten, I skip it. The sauce is rich enough without it. If you are using it, add at the end 3 minutes before removing from the heat.