Father's Day

What better way to celebrate summer and your Dad than by making him something delicious on his special day. It may be hard to keep him away from the grill, but mix up his favorite, refreshing cocktail, sit him in front of the game and get to work. He'll be impressed. We just know it!

STARTERS:
Warm and Creamy Bacon Dip
Baked Crab and Almond Dip
Garlicky Roasted Red Pepper and Almond Dip
Crispy Corn Fritters
Bacon-Wrapped Shrimp
Taleggio-Stuffed Mushrooms

MAINS:
Charlie's Blackened Catfish
Lobster Tacos and Mango Salsa
Maple-Glazed Wild Salmon
Pomegranate Barbecue Ribs
Buttermilk Fried Chicken
The Best Grilled Chicken
Spicy Garlic Chicken Kabobs
Marinated Citrus Grilled Beef
Grilled Skirt Steak with Chimichurri Sauce
Surf and Turf Sizzle

SIDES:
Grilled Asparagus
Grilled Corn and Okra Salad
Baby Bell Peppers with Feta and Mint
Grilled Radicchio with Canellini Beans
Mini Loaded Red Potatoes
Roasted Radish & Potato Salad
Beer Bread
Jalapeno Cheddar Cornbread

COCKTAILS:
The Bootleg | Greyhound | Long Island Iced Tea | Mojito | Old Fashioned | Watermelon Falls

EASY DESSERTS: (You'll be too busy to bake.)
Chocolate Peanut Butter No-Bake "Cake" | Icebox Cake | No-Bake Chocolate Turtle Cheesecake
Dark Chocolate Espresso Pudding | Strawberry Charlotte Russe | Pomegranate Granita

When I was nine years old, my parents told me it would be fun if I made them breakfast in bed every Sunday. I was such a geek, I didn't know they were pulling a Tom Sawyer on me.

At first I practiced with something easy--scrambled eggs. I worked up to over-easy eggs and was very proud when I could plate the eggs without breaking or overcooking the yolk. My sister, Barbara, didn't like to cook. She could be coaxed into helping me with some of the prep, but she wasn't happy about it.

In time my mother felt I was ready to take on the El Dorado of breakfasts: an omelet. The first time I had one, I thought it was so great. The outer crispness contrasted with the custard-softness on the inside.

My mom taught me to use a big pat of butter to prevent the omelet from sticking to the pan. She made savory fillings, using a tasty piece of sausage, some mushrooms, spinach, and a bit of cheese. At times she'd switch gears and put something sweet inside, like fresh strawberries she'd cooked down into a compote.

For Father's Day one year she showed me how to make my dad's favorite filling: crisp bacon, sauteed potatoes, and cheddar cheese. Because he had an Eastern European sweet tooth, he liked his bacon dusted with sugar.

If lonely J. Alfred Prufrock measured out his life in coffee spoons, for me, the measure has been in roasting, sautéing, and grilling, making meals for my family. As a parent, what your kids really think about you, is pretty much a mystery.

On my most recent birthday my sons, Frank (23) and Michael (17), decided I didn't need another pot or a kitchen gadget, because I pretty much have every kitchen tool imaginable. They decided instead to write me a memory about my cooking.

From Michael:
Every Thursday night when I was younger, doing homework, I would wait in my room for my dad to come home. He would bring home a whole chicken that he would marinate with rosemary and olive oil. My brother and I could tell when he put the chicken into the oven, because it made the whole house smell amazing.

Some men BBQ ribs. Others grill hearty steaks or shrimp with an array of specialty South American hot sauces. My dad, however, does not. He holds myriad talents, but cooking is not one of them. Or, so I was led to believe.

Since I was old enough to ask for dinner, my dad has continually told my brother and me that he can’t cook. "Lizzie!" he'd yell to my mom, "Quick! The kids need some food!" His panic palpable and contagious. Before long, we’d all be yelling for our mom’s swift and seemingly effortless intervention. Initially, she tried to tell him to make it himself, but each time he would make it so poorly - too much butter, too little jam, toast with too burned edges - that we decided we would never ask him to make anything again. Even the simplest jobs would go awry. "Oops!" he'd exclaim with questionable enthusiasm from the kitchen. "I've charcoaled the popcorn again!"

Realizing his efforts would cause more cleanup than help, my generous mom (who admittedly loves to pamper those whom she loves) began a routine of breakfast in bed that she’d never be able to get out of. Once my mom spoils you, there’s no going back. “Lizzie!” he’d call out from their room, desperate for more attention. It became an addiction, this attention. It was like crack. “WMC?”

We came to understand “WMC” to be an acronym for “Where’s my coffee?”