Burnt Casserole – Molly Unger: BLOG POST #3

My father’s character lies a resemblance to a burnt casserole: the promise of a warm and nourishing dish, however, upon closer inspection and first bite, the charred edges and subtle toxicity lurking beneath the surface come into focus. Much like the burnt casserole masquerading as a wholesome meal, his emotions project an illusion of normalcy, yet ultimately fail to deliver true nourishment or emotional health. Rare are the moments when I can meticulously pick through the fragments of my memory and find him in a favorable light. In those blinks of good memories, I am left with his music choice. Most of the music I listen to as an adult now is from my father.  

As I sit in the Addlestone Library at the College of Charleston, trying to study for upcoming finals, “The Cave” by Mumford & Sons begins to play.  

Instantly, I am whisked away to my childhood home in Downingtown, Pennsylvania, a place often overshadowed by my Bostonian facade but forever entrenched in my heart as the essence of my upbringing. The house where my primitive years were spent, before I started to have stress, anxiety, and the real world came and punched me in the face. 

There, in the memory-soaked embrace of that suburban haven, I find myself once again seated on the weathered swing, dragging my feet in the dirt, barefoot, seeing the once clean soles become blackened with dirt. As the banjo’s gentle strumming permeates the air, a grin unfurls across my face, a reflexive response to the familiarity and warmth it brings. The air is crisp, not like how it is now, back then, I could breathe, now I just feel smothered. The grass is a vibrant green and the bright yellow forsythias are in bloom. My dad comes out on the freshly painted white porch and his smile, one that I have had to learn to spot from a mile away, is painted with the happiness of the rum he has so heavily poured in his Coca-Cola can.  

As a child, I didn’t know how much my father drank, those realizations would come later in life. He sets his Coca-Cola down on the ledge and comes over to start pushing me on the swing, slowly humming the tunes of Mumford. Though the lyrics hold no significance for me at that moment, I sing them loudly. He whisks me off the swing and perches me on his shoulders, bringing me to the front yard where he sets me down on our comically steep driveway and gets a box of chalk from the garage. The speakers blasting Mumford & Sons are within so I can hear the acoustic guitar, drums, banjo, and piano with more clarity.  

Unfortunately, I am brought back to Addlestone Library by a distant coughing fit. So, I sit here now, thinking about my dad, looking forward to these precious moments where I don’t view him as the man who first broke my heart, and in the symphony of life, Mumford & Son’s melody remains a haunting refrain, echoing the complexities of love and pain intertwined.