My father's manicotti

This is no story of immigrant pride
of recipes handed down
adapted and refined
over generations

We’re Irish mostly, anyway
and dad was no cook
made meals from duty and necessity
had no great love of the culinary arts

I remembered the manicotti
last night: a couple of us
out at a bar for a late-night drink and snack
ordered their version

In fact, whenever I hear the word I think of dad
his epic kitchen struggles making this dish
the swearing and the pale litter of pasta
on the countertop

You see, he’d cook the pasta first
all the way through
limp as the fainting ingenue in an old horror flick
then he’d stuff them

I don’t know whether he loved the dish
or hated the defeats it handed him
but he’d try it again and again
his mouth working, making sucking sounds

I learned from him
either to persevere
or not to learn from my mistakes
I’m not sure which