Two years ago, my father died. The loss, though not unexpected (he had been fighting heart disease for nearly 15 years), was more difficult to deal with than I had imagined it would be. My dad had always been involved in my and my three siblings' lives, from coaching our soccer teams to watching our homemade commercials and after-dinner skits to loaning us tools for our own houses when we were grown.

Of course, just like every father and daughter since the beginning of time, we also had our differences. I went through a period when I didn't even want to speak to my father, but eventually I came around and thankfully realized that life is too short to waste on petty disagreements. In fact, after my twin boys were born, my father accompanied me on everything from doctor visits to grocery trips, lending a much-needed extra set of hands. Through the time we spent together, making certain my two little guys were accounted for, my father and I became closer than we ever had been.

Unfortunately, as the years went on, my father's heart disease worsened, and he passed away a few months before the twins' fourth birthday. As I slogged through the dark days of the reality of my loss, functioning only because I still had to be a mother to two very active boys, I was suddenly struck with what I can only describe as near panic. All the usual realizations sunk in: I would never see my father again, hear his voice, listen to his corny jokes, buy him a Christmas present. But what really hit me hard, what caused the sudden panic, was the thought that I would never again taste his tabouli salad.

I knew, even in the midst of my grief, that worrying about salad was a little silly, but for my family, food had always meant much more than simply nourishment. Preparing food was a sign of love, a care-taking act of selfless devotion to the family. You see, my father had grown up at the elbow of his Lebanese grandmother, who had arrived in this country when she was a teenager. Her family had come from a small mountain village to make a better life for themselves, and what came with them were the family recipes and a desire to share themselves and their love through these special foods.

The Lebanese foods my father's grandmother passed down are a form of Mediterranean-style cooking and are often made with simple, whole, fresh foods such as tomatoes, onions, pine nuts, lemon and garlic, as well as specific herbs and spices such as cinnamon and mint. And while many of the dishes are simple, they often involve a lot of preparation: chopping fresh ingredients, grinding down spices and soaking and rinsing grains — making them not only healthy, but a true labor of love.

My father had grown up eating dishes like tabouli (a salad with grain, tomato, onion and parsley), kibbee (beef, grain, pine nuts and seasonings), dolma (grape leaves stuffed with rice, meat and seasonings) and hummus (ground chickpeas with lemon juice, olive oil and seasonings). At every special event or dinner, these same foods found their way to our dinner table, and the generations of love that went into making, serving and passing them down found their way into our hearts. In a sense, that tabouli represented everything that my father was to me. And so for me, who had never learned how to make the traditional recipes, those flavors and that part of my relationship with my father were forever lost.

Luckily for me, my younger brother, Brian, who is now a chef, had been paying attention. Unbeknownst to me, Dad had shown Brian how to make many of the family dishes we were used to eating, and several months after our father died, Brian surprised me for my birthday with a bowl of tabouli. I couldn't believe the flavors and the textures. They were spot on. Brian's gift remains one of the most emotionally thoughtful I have ever received, and it inspired me to learn more about Dad's recipes.

Brian explained to me how Dad had passed down the recipes by showing him how to make the familial dishes, and I began to get interested in how the foods were made. We scheduled a Saturday to go to the market and buy the fresh produce needed to make tabouli, kibbee and hummus. Brian came to my house and spent the afternoon cooking, and when he was done, I had a house full of the smells, textures and flavors of my youth.

Later, as Brian and I began to write down some of the recipes we had made together, I mustered the courage to test a few recipes on my own. I was soon chopping, soaking and combining and calling Brian for the proper mixture of spices. As I tried different dishes, my mother suggested we take a few field trips to local Mediterranean restaurants. I sampled stuffed grape leaves, hummus and several versions of tabouli, and I found myself constantly comparing the flavors to what I had grown up tasting.

One of the recipes I decided to try was baklava, a dessert made with layers of phyllo dough, nuts, honey and spices. The dish is time-consuming to make, but if it is done well, the results can be astonishing. In talking to Brian, I found out that years before he died, Dad had given Brian his own recipe, typed on a manual typewriter with handwritten notes in the margins. Brian and I immediately set about to make the dish, and my kitchen soon rang with our laughter at the various notations Dad had made, such as, "Do not cheat. Paint every sheet [of phyllo dough with butter]" and "You may give this recipe to whomever you choose. Although it is a family secret." I have since made the baklava on my own for Christmas, and I chuckled all the way through as I explained to my five-year-old twins how Grandpa George left us jokes in his recipes.

Somewhere between the conversations with my brother, tasting the foods and making the recipes myself, I realized how something as simple as tabouli had reestablished a connection with my past. Had I only tasted my Dad's tabouli one last time, I would have been satisfied. Instead, I was rewarded with the knowledge that I now am able to pass down to my own children the food of my childhood and the spirit of love in which it was given.

Perhaps one day my boys will teach their own children how to make tabouli, or maybe they will go out to a restaurant, wondering if the baklava is as good as Mom always made it. Whatever the future holds, I know that by keeping my heart open and by being willing to invest some time along the way, I gained far more than I expected. I gained an appreciation for the foods of my youth, a lasting connection with my heritage and a newfound respect for my father.

Lisa Tiffin is a freelance writer from upstate New York, where she lives with her husband and twin sons. She can often be found pulling weeds from her garden or cooking new dishes in her kitchen. You can reach her at acbooks@rochester.rr.com or www.lisatiffin.com.

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