Portland with Pops: Part 1

I took the train to Portland, eager to meet my father in the middle-ground city for a weekend. He looked surprisingly small in his fleece cap when he met me Friday night at the Amtrak station. He stood to the side, as I knew he would, out of the way of the pouring masses and the meeting people who clogged their path.

Every experience with my father, almost as far back as I remember, begins with a greeting in a place of public transportation. It's as if he met me at a bus stop when I was born, a small suitcase in my baby fist.

He looked small, as I said before. He'd lost weight, as well as the desire to throw it around. Our interactions are so different now that I'm an adult and he doesn't hold the power over me he once did. Nor does he want to. Trading small kindnesses, he gave me rye bread and blackberry honey, an amber comb suspended deliciously in the jar, in exchange for homemade apple sauce. On the drive into Portland, he picked up 60 pounds (plus a few higher quality pint jars) of honey for use in making mead. My father, Aleric, acts much as his name implies, which is to say he behaves as if accidentally and erroneously transported from a past era.

When I was young, from the ages of 9-11, and lived with him every other week, I had to become accustomed to an almost Amish method of living (at least for a child of the 80's). When the toothpaste ran out, we would go weeks sprinkling baking soda on our toothbrushes before he bought another tube. We had to whittle our pencils with kitchen knives. He taught my Girl Scout troop how to turn cream into butter, but I have distinct memories of pouring chunky milk on my cereal. When it got really bad, I would just switch to water. The worst part is, we really weren't poor. At all. He just thought things like toothpaste and pencil sharpeners and fresh milk were unnecessary luxuries. He still doesn't believe in hotel beds (always preferring a truck bed or a floor) and doesn't understand why the post office hasn't yet delivered any of his sweet moonshine to my doorstep.

Portland was kind of like a custody week, 13 years after such things existed for my father and I, but much more enjoyable. Of course we spent more time together and ate better than I ever used to on those old occasions. It was always odd to me that he thought he lost me, that he thought my mother took me away, when I spent so many nights in his supposed custody hungry and alone.

This time around, we stayed at his cousin's adorable house in southeast Portland, hiding inside as the rain and wind peaked in stormy delight. The sweet woman, who doesn't drink alcohol or caffeine or utter profanities, bought beer especially for our visit and seemed positively smitten with the resultingly boisterous conversation. The words and laughter and confidence of our companionship escalated and we stayed up chatting, our feet somehow tucked in together on the couch, until my father's bed time.

On Saturday the three of us ventured to Ocean City Seafood Restaurant on SE 82^nd. A review in The Mercury prompted me to go, and I ate the best dim sum of my short-lived life. We had to wait 15-20 minutes for a table at 12:30 on a rainy Saturday, a very worthwhile endeavor. Anxiously watching the carts pass by other tables, my father and I sipped our tea in expectation. The steam cart finally worked its way to our white-clothed table and the server displayed basket after basket as we pointed at random dishes, briefly conferred, and then stilled our grumbling stomachs with the winning fare.

First I dove into the tofu-wrapped veggies, juicy meatball-like mounds of bok choy, cabbage and other unidentifiable ingredients served with a soy-based dipping sauce. The pork shu mai disappeared so fast I barely remember that meaty moment of heaven, but we all made sure to savor the fantastic shrimp noodles. Rolling the fresh pasta around in my mouth, I delighted in their delicate taste and texture, the shrimp in no way rubbery. My father ate an inordinant amount of the pungently flavored rice, wrapped carefully in banana leaves. Hum bao melted in my mouth, the lightest, whitest dough hiding a sweet dollop of barbecue pork. My father interrupted my creamy scallops to blurt out "That's the most succulent potsticker I've ever had." Indeed, the large hearty dumpling hid a juicy interior behind the thick dough layer. I think it actually squirted at him. A salty sauce brought out the flavor.

For dessert, we dined on egg custard, superior to the runny versions I've had in Seattle, but slightly overcooked and served in too much phyllo dough. The real triumph was the sticky sweet sesame buns. I wish I could have sampled more dessert dishes, but there just wasn't room inside of me. On our way out, I longingly eyed the cart full of buns (so many buns!), some glazed, some with a crackly cover, wondering what delectables might burst forth upon biting.

Ocean City Seafood definitely won over our hearts and gullets. It's a pretty classy joint, decked out in chandeliers and nice fixtures, though you might not know it from the outside. From what I understand, dinner can get pricey, but we made out like bandits at $10 per person.

We digested over a wet walk through the neighborhood and picked persimmons from an inviting tree. Back in our weekend haven, we sipped on more tea with honey, relishing our sweet hot drinks together. Together and happy, I'm not sure why it took us so long to get here. Perhaps because we're both trying to make up for past mistakes.