I’ve been away from Los Angeles. I’ve been in Florida to be by my father’s side as he lay dying. I kept this vigil with my brother and my sister. It was two weeks of heartache mixed with the joy that can only come in moments of family intimacy. There were also five days in Mexico squeezed in the middle. Five days of denial on my part. I went to Mexico never believing what happened to my father could actually happen to my father. Fathers are mythic figures to sons. It doesn’t matter what sort of relationship they either enjoyed or suffered through – there’s stuff between fathers and sons that cannot be expressed. They can only be felt.
And I felt it all these past two weeks.
Because if there is one thing that’s universally true, it’s this: Sons are always trying to be half the man their old man was.
Sometimes that formula gets tragically warped and a son spends his life trying to be twice the man his father was. But this is really two sides of the same coin.
In my case, I’ll have to settle for half the man.
My father was a doctor and not just a doctor, but a children’s heart doctor. If that’s not enough he also volunteered his time at his local Free Clinic caring for the many of us who have fallen between life’s ever-widening cracks. He traveled to 3rd world countries to diagnose kids with heart defects. Heart defects that would have otherwise gone on undetected and untreated.
I’m not going to lie. There was tension in my relationship with my dad. He was a difficult man to know, but an easy man to love. He was quiet but opinionated, which means you were stuck always wanting more from him. He was a man who was smarter than me, more athletic than me, and better looking than me. He was a man who carried these qualities better than anyone I’ve ever known.
People like my father with outsized talents (and undersized egos) are a rare breed. Sometimes being the son of a man like this is a little like climbing a ladder with uneven rungs. It’s hard to know how much progress you’re making, or if it’s even worth the effort.
As a boy, I was not good at the things fathers often want their sons to be good at. This was apparent at a young age. This felt like a tragedy to me. This shortcoming defined a lot of my youth.
Luckily for me, my parents allowed me the space I needed to be good at the things I did enjoy. Which wasn’t always easy for them or for me. But it was the right thing to do because that space allowed me to grow into a man who is happy with his place in the world.
For that, of course, I’m grateful. The kind of grateful you can never pay back.
But there’s always that little boy voice in the back of my head asking: “Am I the son my father always wanted?” I know he would have answered, yes, and I know he would have meant it. But that does not save me from the struggle all men have when they look into their father’s eyes.
I bring up this blatant bit of sentimentality because I saw a glimmer of something in my father’s eyes once and I want to share it here. It was really more of a slip of the tongue. But it showed me that maybe, yes, perhaps my father did understand me. It was a powerful moment for me. But like too many sons and their fathers, we let the moment pass without mentioning it.
Because what was to mention anyway? It was such a silly thing. In fact, it was a recipe.
I was visiting my dad, which I didn’t do nearly enough because an entire continent separated us. But on this visit, my dad mentioned a meal I had cooked more than a decade earlier for him, a sister, and one of his brothers at my home in California. I never thought my father noticed my interest in food. I mean why should he? We rarely discussed it.
The funny thing is, 10-plus years ago I was just beginning to see how happy cooking made me. Any cooking I did at that time had to have been baby steps because the recipe my father remembered was a very simple salmon recipe. I think I got the idea from Martha Stewart Living magazine. I gave it an Asian vibe and added sesame seeds, shichimi-togarashi, and wasabi. But the technique for rolling this salmon was all Martha’s.
I haven’t made this recipe in years. I can’t tell you happy it made me to make it again. GREG
Sesame Salmon Rolls with Wasabi Mayo
Print This Recipe Yield 4Source Inspired by a recipe in Martha Stewart LivingPublishedserves 4
Ingredients
- 2 teaspoon dried wasabi powder (or to taste)
- ¼ cup mayonnaise
- ¼ cup soy sauce
- ¼ cup rice vinegar
- 4 (6 oz) skinless salmon fillets (about 2 inches by 4½ inches)
- salt and white pepper (as needed)
- ¼ cup sesame seeds (preferably black)
- 1 teaspoon shichimi-togarashi (Japanese 7 spice blend, optional)
- 2 teaspoon vegetable oil (as needed for pan)
Directions
Prepare the wasabi mayo: Mix the wasabi and mayonnaise together in a small bowl. Set aside.
Prepare the soy-vinegar sauce: In a small bowl mix the soy sauce and rice vinegar together. Set aside.
Prep the salmon rolls: Using a very sharp knife, slice each fillet open to create one long thin piece approximately 2‑inches by 8‑inches, and about 3/4 to ½‑inch thick.
To accomplish this start at the thinnest end of the fillet and slice horizontally through the flesh taking care to leave one end intact. Spread fillet open, and turn it over. Season it with salt and white pepper. Then spread about ½ teaspoon wasabi mayo all along its length. Tightly roll the fillet starting at the thickest end. Secure the roll closed with 1 or 2 wooden toothpicks. Repeat with remaining fillets.
Cook the salmon Rolls: Pour sesame seeds onto a small plate. Stir in the shichimi-togarashi (if using). Spread the mixture into a smooth even layer.
Heat oil in a non-stick or cast iron pan over medium heat until hot. Swirl the pan to coat the bottom with just the barest slick of oil.
Place a salmon roll onto the pile of seeds, pressing lightly to thoroughly coat bottom of one side. Repeat the process on the other side. Continue with the other rolls moving each roll to the hot pan as it gets coated.
Cook the salmon rolls until opaque almost, a third to halfway through depending on how cooked you like it, 4 to 6 minutes. Turn them over and cook another 2 or 3 minutes. Remove them from the pan and let them rest a few moments to finish cooking.
To serve: Place one salmon roll in the center on a dinner plate. Drizzle with soy-vinegar sauce to taste and serve warm.
I love this post. Yes, you’re father was handsome and I could see how hard it would be to be under that bigger than life umbrella. But you are awesome all in and of yourself! xoxoxo
That’s quite a story. it’s so cool to me that you had a dad whom you obviously admire so much! What a wonderful thing. And what a lovely tribute you’ve written.
Oh Greg I’m so sorry to hear this, but what a wonderful tribute and what a wonderful relationship you clearly had with your dad, you’re so honest about it. I’m just about to go see my dad, in his late 80s, in Florida next week, I’ll carry thing with me the whole time…my thoughts are with you!
What a beautiful story, Greg. You look so much like your dad. May this be your last sadness, as we Armenians say. I will make your salmon this w/end to honor him, too. It looks delicious. xo
My condolences for your loss, Greg. Your father was the kind of person that all of us would love to be and he actually lived it. I’m happy for you that you got to spend those two weeks with him and your siblings. I see you in these pictures of him…and something tells me that you are more like him in heart and spirit than you recognize. xoxo
I was very moved by what you wrote about your dad. I know he was really proud of you–that was abundantly clear to me. By the way, my mom remembers that meal as well. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard her rave about the time you made lunch (or was it dinner?) for her and her brothers. Lots of love, cuz. –Susan
Hi, Greg. I was looking through photos on your dad’s FB last night reminiscing and came across your wonderful article recipe. Your dad was a terrific teacher, mentor and advisor to me during residency years ago and a dear, dear friend afterward. He was enormously proud of you and your accomplishments as a person and a man. He greatly admired your creativity, which he felt he lacked, behind the lens and in front of the stove. And he told me so often. Mostly he was so happy that you created such a wonderful full life for yourself. Just thought you should know. I am going to make this gorgeous sounding dish in Jim’s honor.
Peace,
Liz Reilly Hays
Thank you for the beautiful words and for the photos, dear Greg. I will share them with Anne and
Nick.
We share your sadness but cherish him and the memory of all he accomplished as a doctor, a husband, a father, a brother, and an uncle. We were so proud of him.
A favorite memory of mine about the Henry siblings centers on tables, ours but most of all Aunt
Ann’s and Uncle Bill’s in Tulsa. After dinners or breakfasts your Dad and Aunt Ann and Uncle
Fred always lingered for a long time. They seemed like an inseparable unit despite their living in different parts of the country. One would recall a Tulsa story, the others would smile, then there would be long moments of silence. Companionable silence, but still, silence. I tried to stay away in
order not to break the spell. Coming from a noisy half Italian family of five girls, this was
astonishing to me. But I treasure this memory of the reticent, thoughtful Henry trio. I always
will.
My favorite part of your tribute; “People like my father with outsized talents (and undersized egos)
are a rare breed.”
With love to you and to Gretchen and to Grant,
Aunt Jeanne (and Uncle Fred)
Such a wonderful tribute! Things were different for men of our fathers’ generation. Or maybe we’re different! There is a weird dynamic way too often, I agree. Bet your father wanted some of the qualities you have. Anyway, so sorry, but wonderful dish to remember.
Greg, this is a beautiful tribute that you wrote about your dad. I think your dad is hanging out somewhere and smiling. By the way, I think you are just as handsome as he is. Take good care of yourself and give yourself some time to grief.
Dear Greg, What a lovely tribute to your Dad. Nothing can prepare us for the loss of our parents. I love the fact that food created a connection with your Dad. Our meals together bind us. Wishing you peace.
Greg, I only remember meeting your dad once. You and I were trying to play some home movies. We were struggling to remove a loose piece of film thast was obstructing the lens. His very wise advice to us was, ” well, take it out” We laughed and laughed about that. I’m sorry for your loss. Love,Ann
Wow. I remember that too I bet is was about 1980! XOGREG
Hi Greg — I read this post via Facebook but had to come and tell you how very sorry I am to hear about the loss of your father. No parent child relationship is perfect, but we adore our parents anyway. Your father sounds like an incredible man and you were very lucky to call him dad. Both my parents have been gone since I was 32 years old — they missed so much. I hope your wonderful memories will outshine the sadness you feel now. PS — love the recipe too!
Greg,
Someone is chopping onions here, or else your moving tribute is to blame. Many aspects of your story resonate with me, as I think they will with so many others. His memory is already a blessing to you. Offering my condolences and a giant bear hug, which is the only kind I give.
wow. (I’m so profound with my words.) I’m really sorry for what you went through. I sometimes forget to be sorry, because i’ve never had any positive relationship with parents and any (limited) extended family. So I really have to think about what it’s like to have some kind of positive relationship with a parent. Although yours certainly doesn’t sound close to wonderful. I never knew my real father, although he supposedly hated me. This is what my mother told me, because she was that kind of mother who would say things an adult shouldn’t say. When my mother dies, I refuse to feel guilt. REFUSE. I’m sorry you didn’t have a child, because trust me, the best thing about being a parent, is being the kind of parent you didn’t have. About loving your child and supporting him no matter if he fits into the boy-girl box, or is artistic, or is a dreamer. I love your bio, and reading about your only tackle really made me laugh. I’m really happy you’re happy, and I wish I could move back to Santa Barbara, too.
Greg, this is such a beautiful tribute to you father. I think it’s so lovely you and your siblings were able to all be together, and by his side the last couple of weeks — I’m sure this meant the world to him. What a handsome, smart and accomplished man he was. Like you. I’m so sorry for your family’s loss, and I send you lots of love and warmth. ~Valentina
This is so beautifully written, by a son who obviously loved and admired his father. You depict him as a wonderful human being and a great influence. I am sorry he left, but I am sure there are infinite moments and stories that will keep him alive for years.
And, you look like him:)
Greg, what a beautiful tribute to your father. So sorry about your family’s loss. Xoxo
I love this technique! You can actually do it with steaks if you remove the center bone.
I’m so sorry to hear this. I see where you got your good looks, sensitivity and talent. I’m sure you made your father very proud. Who could not be proud to have you for a son? XO
Oh Greg, my heart aches for you. I know how difficult it is to lose a father. Expressing through your writing is healing for not only you, but for all of us who read it and relate. I think we all do want to live up to our parent’s expectations, no matter what they are. I am so happy you had your special moment with your father over something you love so much… food. Praying for comfort and peace during this difficult transition.
Greg, I am so sorry for your loss. May his memory be a blessing. And for the record I think you look a lot like your dad. Isn’t it amazing the things people remember? Food is always the way to one’s heart. And I’m sure you had your dad’s. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. As long as he lives in your heart, he will not die.
I am so sorry for your loss, Greg, losing a parent is never easy. I am glad for you that you were able to get in some solid family time and I’m certain your father would have appreciated it from how you so beautifully described him. Your special relationship with him will bring you joy after the heartbreaking sorrow you are going through. It does get better with time. XOXO
This recipe looks wonderful, we may be having overnight guests on Tuesday night, I will use a beautiful wild pacific salmon and make your beautiful recipe. Now I’m going to google Martha’s technique.
Greg, I’m so sorry for your loss. I know how terrible it is to lose you dad… especially when he was such a great man. Love from one child of an incredible man to another.
Beautiful tribute, Greg. <3
Greg- so beautiful and moving. I’m glad you got to have that family time, and I’m sorry for your loss. I think that when we grew up, there was one stereotypic way to be a boy or man. I’m glad times have largely changed because people come in many different varieties. Such a special post.
My sincere condolences, Greg. What an honest and loving tribute to your father. Relationships with our parents are so complicated, but thankfully, in most families — and certainly in the case of yours — love trumps all. Wishing you and your siblings peace.
Greg… it’s kind of a mom/dad kind of weekend, isn’t it? I am so sorry you have been through this, but am glad you were able to be there with him. This takes me back 20 years when I was in the same boat with such a similar story. I really appreciate the stories you have shared of your mother and father. I am sure you ended up being the man your father wanted you to be… you were probably his favorite, although he may never have told you. I will make the salmon soon, and think of you and your dad.
Greg, I’m so sorry for your loss. What you’ve written here about your father was so beautifully expressed, it made me feel what I imagine both you and he felt. And it reminded me of how my own dear father, who died several years ago, never quite “got” me, yet he clearly adored me and always let me be myself. And I know I don’t need to tell you, your relationship with him will somehow continue even though he is gone, and you will continue to work through those “tensions.”