During my adolescent years I spent succulent summers at Bethany Beach, Delaware, body surfing, riding waves of hormones¹, pretending to be the man I wanted to become. My dad ruled the small kingdom of Beachcombers Flat, the nest and crash pad for the family. One unbroken rule of beach life was that Dad did the cooking, the kids did the cleaning up and the dishes, and Mother rested.

My father’s style of cooking can be best described as intuitive, inventive, passionate² and chaotic³. When he gathered beach plums for the yearly batch⁴ of jam, day after day large pots of the warlock’s brew⁵ simmered on the stove, and the kitchen looked like the playpen of a child who had spilled purple paint.

Whenever guests were expected, Dad would begin early in the morning to make Chicken Cacciatore. The largest skillets and pots came out. Mountains of chicken were cut up and browned in olive oil with as much garlic as was available in southern Delaware. Whole fields of tomatoes, onions, celery, peppers and mushrooms disappeared into the caldron, in no particular order or proportion. Salt, pepper, basil and varieties of spices, unknown to the Frugal⁶ Gourmet⁷ were added - to taste. Always to taste. Every hour or so, the concoction⁸ was tasted and discerning comment was gathered from any family member or visiting friend who happened by.

As the sun lost its intensity⁹, the sea grew calm and emerald -- the dinner hour arrived. What I remember most was the appetite we brought to the table, the rich simmered symphony of the Cacciatore, the profusion¹⁰ of talk, the plenty-for-all, sweet chaos¹¹ of the feast around the kitchen table -- the wine and wafer of food prepared with wild love.