Dad,

I want to tell you about a girl that I met a few months ago. Her name is Max and she’s young and strong and irreverent. She is just as likely to break your neck for wasting her time as she is to smile at you. She’s exactly the type of girl you would hate. But you needn’t worry Dad; she is just a business associate of mine.

I fed her a few times while we were working late on a recent project. The least I could do was offer her some food. We were pressed for time so I just threw together some soup and sandwiches or boiled up some pasta that we ate at our desks. Still I have never seen anyone eat so voraciously or enjoy her food quite as much as Max. A "spur of the moment culinary miracle" she called my cooking. When I tried to tell her it was no big deal she looked at me in shock and said that cooking was definitely not in her skill set. The girl really does appreciate her food.

I decided to have her over for dinner tonight. This is the first time I‘ve paged her when there hasn’t been work to do or some information to give her. I wonder if she will rip my head off for calling her over here for nothing. But there is food involved so hopefully I will make it through this visit intact. I have really enjoyed having someone to cook for again.

Mom roped me into cooking, when she caught me staking out the kitchen for a chance at her chocolate chip cookie dough. Soon she had me dropping eggshells in the mix and spilling chocolate chips all over the kitchen floor. But somehow I managed to learn a few things in the process. Mom seemed to enjoy cooking whether it was for just two of us or for a dinner party with your business associates. I didn’t mind helping her but I could never understand why she didn’t allow our chef to take care of it. That was what you hired him for wasn’t it? Mom said she liked to cook for her guests and see the satisfied expressions on their faces. They seemed happy enough to me but I wasn’t really convinced. It just seemed like a lot of work.

Dad, the truth is I love to cook and I have you to thank for that. We only cooked together a half a dozen times but you helped me catch the vision of what it was really about.

You were one of those men’s men that eschewed everything domestic or remotely introspective. You were strong, silent and intimidating not only to me, but also to everyone around you. You pushed us all so hard until you got what you wanted and you always got what you wanted. ‘Logan Cale the turnaround king’ the newspapers called you. I don’t need to tell you this but your face was a regular feature on the cover of the business section of the paper. I still have some of those clippings somewhere.

"In the last twenty-four months Logan Cale, President of Cale Industries and well known corporate financier, has taken Softcell Inc. from the hands of the receiver to unprecedented profits, breaking the record set in the 1990’s by another pacific-northwest success story Micro Corp. In the process he has restructured the software industry and breathed new life into the high tech sector as a whole."

"United Services of Seattle is sad to announce the resignation of Logan Cale from the board of directors after a three year tenure. During Mr. Cale’s tenure United Services has seen a doubling in donations. Mr. Cale’s greatest contribution however, was in the streamlining of administrative procedures and the introduction of internal cost cutting measures which significantly increased the percentage of contributions that were directed to actual charitable purposes. His legacy will continue with United Services for years to come."

I read dozens of these articles over the years and each one intimidated me more than the last. How could one person do so much? I certainly couldn’t and still can’t.

Dad you were driven and intense and you pushed yourself hardest of all. To me it seemed you never slept. I would wake up at 2:00 am for a glass of water and the light would still be on in your office. I could hear you talking to yourself as you reviewed a file. "I can’t believe these people. Don’t they understand that you can’t run a company this way? They have no sense of fiscal responsibility." Then at 7:00 am when I would drag myself out of bed to get ready for school you would be dressed and walking out the door.

You knew what needed to be done and didn’t rest until it was completed. If no one else could do it you did it yourself. You acted as if you could save the world, or at least the financial world, single-handedly.

Seeing you cooking in the kitchen that first time seemed like such a contradiction to me.

"What are you doing Dad?" I asked suspiciously, when I caught you there.

"Cooking for your Mother." You said matter-of-factly.

"What for?" I stood there in shock, not moving.

"Hand me that saucepan over there." It was more an order than a request. I jumped to get it at the force of your voice. You were never one to explain yourself or justify what your were doing.

"Taste the sauce." Another order. "More basil or more sage?"

"Uh…basil I think." I stammered.

"I agree." That was the closest thing to a complement I ever received from you.

"Logan, come here and I’ll show you how to julienne vegetables." You taught me that the key to a good cut is a good blade and how to recognize one. As we worked on the meal you taught me how to use every knife in the kitchen going through them one at a time, chef’s knife, cleaver, paring knife, boning knife.

When I asked you how you knew all this you told me you had hired a chef from a five-star restaurant to teach you a few techniques while you were working on a merger deal in Paris. "If you’re going to do something you might as well do it right" you said.

That was your philosophy in life. "If you’re going to do something you might as well do it right." Your attention to detail was amazing, from the ingredients in the sauce to the selection of the wine to the setting of the table. You tackled cooking the same way you tackled all your other projects, with intensity, drive and perfectionism. It didn’t take me long to realize that the dozens of cookbooks on our kitchen shelves weren’t Mom’s. They were yours. Oriental, Thai, Malaysian, Mediterranean, Italian, French and encyclopedic volumes detailing all the herbs and spices in the world, the list was endless. You had memorized them all. You knew how to create the perfect glaze for duck a l’orange or how to mix a half dozen spices to create a curry from scratch. The one thing that didn’t surprise me though was that you left a disaster in the kitchen. Your domestic moments never extended as far as cleaning up.

In the end it was Mom’s eyes when you seated her at the table on that day that sealed it for me. That meal was obviously the best gift that you could have given her. I could see the pleasure sparkling in her eyes at that moment and then I understood.

Cooking was the one connection I had with you. It was the first time you allowed me to work beside you. You probably didn’t realize this but I read and reread every single one of your cookbooks over the next several weeks wanting to be ready the next time you entered the kitchen. I wanted to be able to answer your questions and offer something coherent when you asked my opinion.

We cooked together just five more times before you died. Those were exciting, intense, intimidating days for me. Still, on those five days, the joy of working beside you far surpassed my fear of disappointing you. I hold onto those five days as some of the best days in my life.

Together you and I created some wonderful meals for Mom, and we never once failed. Unlike me, failure was not in your vocabulary, not at work, not in your marriage, not in public service and especially not in the kitchen. You never failed at anything in your life except for staying alive long enough so I could prove to you I wasn’t a failure either. I don’t know if I will ever be able to do that but I am still trying.

Uncle Jonas started calling me Junior after you died as if I didn’t deserve your name. All these years later he still does, in his condescending tone, letting me know that I will never live up to your standards. He’s right of course; I know I never can but at least I can cook a meal for a friend. I’m grateful to you for that Dad, for giving me something I could be good at.

So tonight I thought I would offer Max something that I have put a little more effort into. No culinary miracle but I thought I would try and put a sparkle in her eyes the same way you put a sparkle in Mom’s.

Your son,

Logan Cale