A recipe for Tati

Warnings beforehand: this one is gonna hurt.

Tati was my grandfather. At least that was what we called him. I've been told that it's a Northern German diminutive for Grandpa, but I've never heard anyone else use it. Oh well, he was my Tati. And I loved him SO MUCH.

History says I shouldn't have. See, I am an unplanned child. That's the nicest way to put it. I used to tell people "Oh, I went to my mother's first wedding." Took 'em a while to get what I meant. I was born in 1957, to a Roman Catholic household. My mom was 17. In those days, abortion was not discussed. Apparently, adoption was, but my Mom was adamant. Like Madonna, she was gonna keep her baby.

Her father was not pleased with this choice. And he told her so. He told her he would never have anything to do with the child.

I don't remember how they got him to the hospital, but apparently, when he saw HIS grandson, it was all over. Nothing he had said applied anymore, and no one, and I mean NO ONE, could get near HIS grandson when he was around.

Tati was a long haul truckdriver. He was about 6 4 with the icy blue eyes that I have, and shocking white blond hair. He drove that truck, but what he REALLY wanted to be was a fisherman. And we fished together, out of Sheepshead Bay, a lot.

Tati basically took over my raising, when he was in town. He bought all my clothes, and he bought versions of what he wore. One of my favorite pictures is of me, about four years old, in a pea coat, a pair of wranglers that were way too long, rolled at the cuff, and a sailor's cap, holding Tati's hand. He's wearing the same thing, and his weathered face looks SO happy.

On weekends, he would borrow a friend's taxi, and he would take me to Central Park. Usually, to a stream, or lake, or some small body of water. On the way there, he'd hand me the breakfast that my mother would never let me have: bacon and eggs, on a buttered roll, and a chocolate milk. (Olive oil saved my cholesterol , I guess). And we'd go to that brook, and he'd give me a little fishing pole, and we'd fish. There WERE actually fish in the water in those days, some kind of gourami species, but I could never remember catching any. After a few hours, I would fall asleep in the sun, leaning against him. He'd wake me saying "sonny, sonny, LOOK. You caught a fish." And indeed, there was always one or two fishes in the bucket we'd bring along. Part of the magic of grandfathers, I guess.

Then there was his corner bar where he'd take me. Harry's (of course). Harry was the owner and bartender. He had a grandson, too, who lived in Florida with his family, so I became "his" grandson, too. And every other blue collar man who was in there who missed his grandson. I learned to play skittles, and poker, and a few other games. And I played with the bar cat, "Gladiolous," although I could never get the name right, and called her "Ravioli." One time, Tati gave me a taste of his beer. Nana was LIVID. I still remember her screaming, and Tati promising she'd never smell that again. And she never did. The next time, he taught me about blackjack gum after drinking. I'm sure Nana knew, but she never said anything.

Tati used to take me driving in his rig too, and BOY, did I love THAT. I felt like such a big kid when I got to be in the truck.

One time, he took me in the truck. We were in matching outfits, and before we left, he was serious and said "I'm taking you someplace where you have to be very quiet. But you'll learn some important things there." He took me to a union hall, walking me in on his shoulders, cursing up a blue streak about how his grandson was there, and anyone who got dirty was gonna get a rap in the mouth. I felt like I was on the top of a tree, on top of his shoulders. And it took me years to realize, I was at a teamster's meeting. I don't know what I learned there, but I DO know that, for the rest of my life, I've been pro union. And whenever I made a pro union statement, years later, my grandmother would smile and say Tati is looking at you and smiling."

One day, Tati disappeared. I just thought he was on a long trip to California, like he frequently went. But he didn't come back. And I began to take trips to the hospital with my mom and grandmother, "to see Susie." I never saw Susie. One of them would go in the hospital, and the other would stay outside with me, and then they'd change . Sometimes, I'd see a man look out the window, in a fisherman's cap and wave to me. "MOMMMA NANA. THERES TATI. LOOK!" They ALWAYS told me I was wrong, it was just a lonely old man, who missed his grandson.

I told you this was gonna be tough.

Well, time passed, as it does for kids I guess. I never went to his funeral (he died of lung cancer, at 54 years). One day, I was looking through some pictures, in a closet, and I found a holy card. You know those things that they give out at C atholic funerals. It had Tati's name on it. I looked up to my mother and Nana, who were sitting there "DID TATI DIE?" The nervous laughter is something I will not forget. I don't remember the answer I got, if I got one, but I do remember that I decided then and there: I would never trust them again.

Years later, as I was packing up things to move to my own place, I found a box . It was my Nana's. It was filled with love letters that Tati had written to her from California. He wrote one every time he went on a trip. And his cap and his gloves were there, too. I have very big hands, but the gloves were too big. They smelled of him: his cologne was Old Spice. It was probably wrong of me, but I took them. I think Nana knew, but she never said anything. When she died, over 30 years after he did, I put them in her casket with her.

I'd like to t hink that Tati still watches over me, and sometimes, I swear I can smell the Old Spice, and feel that brush of stubble that I'd feel when he'd kiss me on the cheek or my head, or I imagine I feel his big, wrinkled, tough hand holding mine. I would also like to think that a man who could give up his prejudices about his grandson is happy with me, and my relationship, and how I've become so much like my grandmother. I miss him. Maybe as much asI miss my grandmother, and certainly in a different way.

Stuffed cabbage was something that Tati loved, but Nana would NOT make it. She called it "Fart dinner," and complained that he farted enough. So when he really HAD to have it, Tati would go out and have it for lunch. Today, I made stuffed cabbage, and I thought of that big, sweet, man, who loved his grandson so much. I was lucky. Not everyone gets that. And when I look in the mirror and realize I have his eyes, well, I'm even luckier.

Tati, if you read this, this is how I made it. I took Marion Cunningham's ( a treasure, by the way. Tati would have liked her) recipe and played with it a little. Hers is sweeter, and spicer than mine, and doesnt have garlic in it.

You need a big head of savoy cabbage. Cut it in half, and cut out the core. It's VERY important that you do this. Then, bring a big pot of water to a boil, and add some salt. Put in the cabbage halves, and when the water comes back to the boil, cook it for no more than five minutes (Ms. Cunningham covers her pot. To me, that's a sure way to get that cabbage smell we hate). Be careful when you pull out the cabbage. It's very hot. Put it in a colander in the sink and let it cool. It's going to take a while.

While that's happening, cook up 2 cups of white rice ( I used basmati), and combine it with a pound of ground meat (I used beef, but I bet pork would be amazing), and a cup of tomato sauce. Pluse a heaping teaspoon of salt.I added two chopped cloves of garlic to this.

When your cabbage is cool enough to work with, select twelve-fifteen nice sized leaves (Ms. Cunningham uses the outer leaves for protecting the dish while it's baking. I don't see why. I stuff them). Chop up the rest of the cabbage, and lay it in a 9x13 inch pan that's been lightly oiled. Sprinkle about 1/3 cup of brown sugar over that. Then, spoon some of the rice/meat/sauce mixture into each of your reserved leaves, and roll it up. You can be generous here, this is a messy dish. Put the rolls on top of the cabbage layer. If you have extra filling, sprinkle it over those rolls. Then, pour half a cup of tomato sauce over all of this, cover the casserole with foil, and bake it for an hour, at 350. After 45 minutes, I take off the foil to let it dry out a little, but you don't have to.

The original recipe says this serves four. Tati had a BIG appetite, and I would be surprised if he couldn't polish this off in two meals. I think six normal sized appetites is more appropriate here.

I dont' make this dish too often, but whenever I do, I feel like Tati is looking over my shoulder, smiling, and I swear that I can smell Old Spice in my kitchen.