My dad wasn't much of a cook.  Most. if not all, of the cooking was done by my mother.  My dad and I specialized in popcorn, chocolate malts, and Sunday breakfast.  One Sunday morning, my dad wanted to make pancakes from scratch, and we didn't have baking powder, so he decided to add baking soda to the mix, thinking they were pretty comparable.  It wasn't.  The pancakes ended up tasting like FISH!  They were awful.  Unfortunately, it just affirmed why he shouldn't cook, which just put a bit more pressure on mom.  We stuck to Bisquick after that.

When I was a very little girl, my parents insisted that I hold one of their hands when we walked in crowds or dangerous places like parking lots.  My dad always had large hands, the kind of hands indicative not only of his size but his hard work as a truck driver.  I couldn't fit my small hands into his large hands, and so he extended his pinky finger for me to grasp when we walked.  I rediscovered this memory while I held his hands during his illness.  We never talked about it because he was not comfortable with displays of affection, but the gesture of his little fingure was quite typical of who he was: quietly loving and tender.