You can go home again, but don't ever move back.

This weekend we went to visit my parents. It's a short drive, too long for an afternoon visit, so we end up going the few weekends a year they are actually there and I am actually not at Church and my kids don't have birthday parties and my wife doesn't have pampered chef parties.

This averages out to about 4 weekends out of the year.

I love spending time at my parent's house. More so when they are there at the same time. A fair amount of the reason is spending time with my Dad.

The kids plug into Treehouse on tv like it's drugs for the eyes, which would make "Toopy and Binoo" the visual equivalent to crystal meth. Think "Ren & Stimpy" without the butt jokes. SpongeBob == Shakespeare in comparison.

Kim likes to read, watch TLC programs on bitchy women and gay men fixing unfortunately dressed or tragically housed people, and drinking wine with Mom.

To be honest, Kim worries me more than the kids.

But I do a few things:
1. Work on computers.
2. Watch aircraft documentaries with Dad.
3. Play with the kids so Kim can read.
4. Apprentice under my Father.

When you think of apprenticing, you would normally think carpentry, plumbing, electrical work, car repair. Now my Dad can do all of these well, inso none of those projects has killed him or anyone else yet (we JUST retired his grade 9 woodworking project, so he has skill).

No, I apprentice on how to cook. My Dad is a kitchen snob, and I'm not afraid to admit it. He won't cook on anything other than Paderno, he only uses fresh ground pepper and Kosher salt. He GROWS his own spices.

Dad took over cooking around the same time he retired. I noticed he had too much time on his hands when I started receiving lunches that were the envy of my classmates. They had PB & J and Passion Flakies, I had ham and dijon pita sandwiches with a side of carrots in rose-petal cut. And because I wasn't receiving enough negative attention during my adolescence, my father included in his only son's, his 16 year old son's lunch, pictures of cookies and Junior Juices.

May I make a side note that it makes it remarkably more difficult getting dates when you pull out a dwarfed drink container that has the characters from "Wind in the Willows" on it.

Over the years Dad moved from cooking style to cooking style, progressing in skill, complexity, and flavour. He now is the person I call when I have doubts on any matter of cooking. No one else's opinion counts like his does. I am proud to learn a few of his secrets, which are only secrets because we don't listen closely enough to him.

I love my Dad, and I am proud of his ability to cook. I am happy to learn from him, observing his style and unlearning my plebeian culinary ways.

So I raise a scotch to my Father, master chef of the house. After all, he left the scotch here on his last visit, it only seems right. Thanks Dad.