“Like many others before and after him, he spent much of his life in an adopted country, toiling as a manual laborer, cleaning dishes, hauling fish, driving taxis, cleaning floors. A lifetime of double shifts. My father took comfort in cooking a good meal, and the pleasures of family around a table, eating and sharing. I remember waking up in the morning, the smell of burning wood, seeing my father tending the fireplace, hearing the crackling sound of chestnuts roasting for breakfast. His tomato salad, sliced wafer thin, with a dash of vinegar and a fistful of sweet parsley leaves. The bean
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