How do you get gravy on the ceiling?

23 years ago tonight, or perhaps early on the morning of January 10th my dad left this earth. I can only imagine the party and shenanigans that have taken place in heaven since that day.

He had the most eclectic of resumes. In the 1940's he worked as a chef on the Union Pacific Railroad. He spoke of the postage stamp sized kitchen where gourmet meals were daily fare. Rail travel was elegant in those days, and no shortcuts were taken in the kitchen. Everything was made from scratch, even mayonnaise. He was a wonderful chef and delighted friends and family all his life with his exquisite cooking. 

His food was renowned, and so were the disastrous kitchen messes he left in his wake. Not a kitchen ceiling in the family was free of his signature gravy stains. How do you get gravy on the ceiling? I don't know! He loved pots and pans and bowls and knives. And he put each and every utensil to work to create a meal. Everything started with his dramatic knife sharpening and then the onion chopping began. When I was a little girl I thought all recipes began with "first, chop an onion". It's a rule I still pretty much stick to today.

Betty Grable walking by the kitchen car:

After serving in the Navy during WWII he returned to Los Angeles where he became an officer with the Los Angeles Police Department.  He worked his way from patrol officer to sergeant detective in the Burglary Division at Parker Center. He loved the LAPD, loved his work. He was nick named "Buddy" by his fellow detectives because he befriended and tried to help many of the people he arrested. He worked with them to find jobs and get on the right path. I heard him say more than once "I arrested the nicest guy today". 

Here's a photo from Friday, September 6, 1946 Los Angeles Examiner's front page. The woman my dad is escorting had been on the 10th floor ledge of a downtown LA hotel. She said she "the taste of blood haunted her" and was going to leap to her death. My father crawled out on the ledge and brought her back in. 

Here's a photo from the 1940's showing my dad going into Johnson's Lake in LA to retrieve some evidence. The story reads, " Police yesterday recovered more than $30,000 in waterlogged accounts receivables from the muddy bottom of Johnson Lake. They were dumped there yesterday morning by a burglar who had chosen the banks of the lake to open a safe stolen from Tatum-Iden, Inc. The burglar, apparently irked because he found no money, hurled three metal file cabinets into the lake. Diving hero yesterday was Detective Joseph M Oaks of the Los Angeles burglary division. Clad in bahing trunks but with no diving equiplent he brought up the cabinets and the papers from their resting place five feet below the surface."

In 1965 my father retired from the LAPD and went to work for the US State Department at the Agency For International Development. He served in Vietnam for several years during the war.

There are so many events and facets to my father's life. It's almost tempting to go into a bullet point list mode of things about him.  He spoke fluent Spanish. He loved animals. He made his own good time wherever he went. He was a fabulous writer. He could tell a joke like nobody else. He was generous to a fault. He never met a stranger. Oh, and he was a character of the highest order.

January 1, 1969 my father took me to the Rose Bowl. His beloved USC was playing Ohio State. OJ Simpson ran an 80 yard touchdown, and my father jumped up and yelled "Take that Woody you old son of a bitch!!". He was undaunted by the fact that our seats were in the Ohio State section. 

So I can only imagine that in some heavenly place tonight the joint is rocking with classical music, onions are being chopped and now God only knows how in the world you get gravy on a ceiling.