Richard Ruben, 1948 – 2008

Growing up, my dad was in charge of buying junk food in our house. He taught me about circus peanuts and pork rinds. He could eat a whole pizza in one sitting; his van was littered with king-sized Snicker’s wrappers. When he got sober, he went gaga for juicing and fish oil. Bookshelf after bookshelf was lined with title after title about healthy eating. Looking back, my dad probably used food like he used drugs: overly. But as a kid, nothing was better than eating ice cream with my dad.

It would start with the decision to get the ice cream, an iresistable delicacy that we couldnt, as a family, just keep laying around the freezer. This decision was usually made late at night and because my dad said so. Sometimes, I would get to come along. Once we got the gallon into the house, me, him and my mom would all pile in the kitchen, getting out the bowls and spoons, tripping over the dogs. My dad was in charge, mostly because he wanted to eat first and required the most ice cream. To start, he would tear each corner of the box down, exposing the sides of the big creamy brick. Then, he took a ten inch chef’s knife and cut the gallon into three slices. Then, he would take his slice and plop it into a Tupperware mixing bowl, pre-lined with slices of pound cake. On top went the chocolate syrup and slices of banana. He would then retreat to him and my mom’s bedroom with anywhere from 2-3 dogs in hot pursuit. My mom and I were left to make our own bowls. We would meet him in the bedroom where we all sat in front of the TV, along with the dull tapping and scraping of spoons against plastic. When we were done, the dogs would chase the dishes around the floor, licking bowls and noses coated in good whiteness. On the best nights, I would fall asleep to sounds of the dishwasher shushing.

Last month, on the three year anniversary of his death, I went out and got a gallon of ice cream, a bottle of chocolate syrup, a banana and remembered. After I made a Facebook post of all the things my friends could eat in honor of his death, my friend, Bianca, folded a slice of pizza in half, like my dad used to do, shoved it into her mouth and posted a picture of the manuver on my wall. The same week, my friend Sarah posted an entry on her blog, Feed Me Like You Love Me, about grief and eating. She said, “Eating a meal when you feel the wound of what was ripped from inside you is the very act of one day after another, one step in front of the other, one bite back to life.”

My dad’s death was sudden, sad and drug-related. Since it happened, I’ve been looking for ways to keep him close, do him justice, and to heal.  The next step on that journey is to sit down every year and eat some ice cream. I’ve also decided to create a place for all of us to collect our stories — about food and remembering.

So, tell me. Who died? How much did you love them? And what did they like to eat more than anything in the whole world?