Yesterday was my father's birthday. Had he lived until now, he would have been 75, but he died in 1987. He was a complicated man, but the same cannot be said of his taste in food. Content to eat burgers, grilled cheese, or creamed chipped beef for most of his meals (all on wonder-type bread, of course), his idea of a special occasion menu was chicken with white gravy, mashed potatoes, and biscuits, a meal that, to this day, I make every year on January 6.
Happy Birthday, Dad.
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