The Mystique of the Sensual

My father is an old man. I hardly recognize the weary body held together by vodka and wires. I hardly know him. And the tragic thing is that in a literal sense, I never really did.

He’s unknowable. Has been for as long as I can remember. That is unless you stay very still, very quiet, and allow yourself to be open to the sensory transmissions he lovingly shares with the people he cares most about.

He is a man who captures moments, preserves them, attempts to understand and improve them, and gently offers them back to you in coded messages. Unraveling the messages is easy. But knowing that this is how to connect to this enigmatic man...that has taken me a lifetime to embrace. Even though in many ways I do the same thing. I truly am his daughter.

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My father was an aspiring architect. He fell unwittingly into science and lost his way...but found a perfect expression with which to deconstruct and recreate his passions. He became a world class chemist, a brilliant photographer, and an imaginative family chef. And all the while he meticulously employed the sciences to build sensory bridges.

These were the unspoken rendezvous you had to experience to truly know my dad. These were the places - tucked somewhere between the molecules of reality and Oz - where you had to be brave enough to venture in order to be with this extraordinary man. If you relied only on standard cues and physical manifestations, you missed out.

He’s still the same. And I’m so much like him.

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Two years ago I visited the worn out human casing that holds my father. He’s in his 80s. Surprisingly sharp and spry for a man who’s already burned through several pacemakers and defibrillators, some stents, a couple bouts of cancer, countless surgeries, and more years fueled by nicotine and alcohol than I care to calculate. Using science and logic and math, he shouldn’t still be here. But using the perfect brew of magic and optimism, wonder and sensual awareness that is my father, you beget a very different result.

My childhood memories of him are all enveloped in tastes and smells; pictures and colors and contrasts; tactile sensations and textures; and his unbridled enthusiasm and pure joy at every wondrous moment. So many of the things that I love I do so because of how this man introduced them into my life. And so I often attempt to mimic his ways, passing on my passions in the same fashion to those around me. But I suspect that like my dad, I’m often not fully understood.

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On my last visit, in spite of his failing health and impending mortality, my father trotted out his usual stories and monologues. The same stories I’ve heard dozens of times. The same demonstrations I’ve witnessed over and over. I humored him. We all did. It’s virtually impossible not to; he’s still a very charming guy. But I didn’t fully engage.

One afternoon it was decided that we’d have lunch at a little artisan cafe about half an hour away from the sleepy little Wisconsin town where my dad lives. These trips are common. He still loves to get out and about.

I wasn’t expecting much. I didn’t view it as a photo op or a priceless memory in the making. Not even as he extolled the amazing things I had in store...during the entire drive there.

We arrived and walked into a lovely little bistro, hidden away in plain site. It surpassed my father’s enthusiastic reviews and put many of the trendy SoCal haunts around me to shame. There was nothing fancy in the offering. But everything was carefully prepared from inception to presentation. And by far the most magical thing on the menu for me was the homemade ginger ale.

It was tart and tangy with a teasing bite and a refreshing balance of citrus. Enough fizz to tickle my nose without overwhelming the flavors. Earthy. Sharp. Simple yet complex. This was the absolute best ginger ale I’d ever tasted since...

Since what?

Suddenly I was transported back to my early childhood. Back to the moment when my daddy first introduced me to this mysterious elixir called ginger ale. It tickled my nose. It made me giggle with delight. And it tasted like nothing else I’d ever experienced. I knew in that moment at the approximate age of three that ginger ale was destined to be a defining part of who I’d always be. And do you want to know something? It truly has been.

I asked the waitress if they would share the recipe. She listed off ingredients but that was the most they were willing to reveal. I returned home and researched ginger ales, beers, and brews on the market. I searched for recipes. I embraced this mission exhaustedly until finally, after not finding anything quite matching my newfound favorite sensual experience, I regretfully admitted defeat. And went back to settling for lesser ginger ales. I all but forgot that perfect brew I’d had on a February afternoon with my father.

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That is until this past weekend.

There’s a line of sparkling waters that I consume with fervor. I adore their surprising, natural flavor combinations. The are spiked with vitamins and antioxidants, which is probably a bonus. But I drink them solely for their delight. Saturday morning, just after 5am, I found a brand new flavor had been added to the lineup: Ginger Lime.

It is tart and tangy with a teasing bite and a refreshing balance of citrus. Enough fizz to tickle my nose without overwhelming the flavors. Earthy. Sharp. Simple yet complex. It is almost exactly like the ginger ale I had at a little cafe in Wisconsin with my dad. Almost...

Except that he isn’t here to complete the alchemy. Without his outstretched hand and seal of approval, it falls just short of sublime.

The only way I know to remedy that is to find someone I love and offer up my magical find to them with my own brand of unbridled enthusiasm. I hope I’ll find the time and place to do so. May my gesture of pure and sensual intent be received and understood as the part of me that I so gratefully inherited from my beautiful father. May he always live on through me.