If you are what you eat: Then I’m a Daddy’s girl.

“More. More. More!” Were the first words that spat out of my mouth in between slobbery bites of corn on the cob. I was a toddler, in the process of teething, nonetheless still using my first front tooth to break into the buttery kernels of Wisconsin corn.

Ten years later, my father and I went head to head in a corn eating competition. The lack of teeth as a toddler never held me back, and neither did my braces as I finished thirty-three ears of corn—to beat my father’s thirty-two. Ranking as the youngest corn eating champion (of the family).

No one can deny my love of food. Despite my high metabolism and tendency to eat healthy foods, I will eat ANYTHING. Probably because, as I child—I had no choice.

I remember being in fifth grade, and my father was going through a phase of cooking spicy Mexican rice dishes. They were probably incredible; some with sausage, others with chicken, all I really remember though was my anxiety. I did not like my father’s cooking at the time, and stopped eating the large portions that I typically eat. What bothered me most was my worry that perhaps, I may be a “picky eater!” I pulled my Mother aside one evening, confiding in her my worries, and she assured me that it was just a phase that I was going through. And indeed it was, as I resumed my normal eating habits within the year when we moved to Texas, where BBQ became my staple.

The reason I was so concerned about my possible “picky” propensity, was because my father had instilled in me a love of food. Not just for the food itself, but for the process, whether it be cooking in the kitchen with my Dad, or going to the fish market to pick out dinner, as he would shove slabs of raw fish in my face forcing me to learn what fresh fish should smell like. Never have I flinched at my father’s appreciation of food. Instead I have stood by his side, in admiration and awe, as I learned bits and pieces about cooking along the way. He and I once made a Turducken—from scratch. My bony arms shaking to pull the tweed rope through the flesh of a turkey to sew up a turkey stuffed with a chicken and a duck. That was the last year we ever made our own, nonetheless the memories will always be with me.

After moving to Texas, we advanced from our eighties minivan, and bought a real pick-up truck. We were officially Texans. Despite my Father’s busy schedule at the Chicago Board of Trade, he still made every weekend an adventure. Once, my mother was visiting her family in East Texas, so he loaded my sister and I into the truck, and drove us across the state to meet her. Along the way, he stopped at EVERY farm stand that sold melons. I sat in the backseat with a Swiss Army knife, newspaper piled on the leather, and every kind of melon you could ever imagine, slicing up hunks for us to try. The melon was still warm from sitting in the warm Texas sun, which also produced a strong aroma in the pick-up truck, covering us in seeds as my sticky fingers were getting tangled in my hair.

Not only has my Father provided me with endless memories of food exploration, he has also been my guiding light. In the kitchen and in life, whether it is a recipe for veal piccata or relationship advice, he has always selflessly offered any and all of his resources to those around him.

And with some short memories of my Dad’s adventures with food and in life, I would like to thank all fathers'. Thank you for the inspiration in the kitchen, thank you for instilling high morale, and thank you for motivation, the motivation that makes one achieve ones goals on a daily basis.

In honor of my father, I spent the day eating, cooking, and filling my “memory book,” as these are some of the greatest moments we spend together. In parting, I will leave with one more memory. One that provided me with great joy and hope-- even to this day.

Waking at dawn when I was seven years old, my father hustled me out of the house. He had me help arrange a bag of goodies, and as we quietly left the family sleeping, we jogged all the way to the middle of the Northwestern campus (maybe I was being pushed in the jogging stroller- can’t remember). I trailed behind my father up a temporary hill of scraps that had grown over with itchy weeds. He sat me down, passing me a Ziploc bag leaking of orange juice, another of milk, and some cheerios that made up our breakfast. And as the sun rose over Lake Michigan that morning, I remember being filled with the simple kind of happiness that you can only have as a child, and with respect for my father, who was surprising me every day with seemingly innovative ideas about how to live ones life. I learned by example, and continue to learn everyday from him. As a Boston Marathon runner, David Clements has achieved a great number of accomplishments in his life, yet it is the memories of crawling up “Weed Mountain” for a picnic, that continue to teach me life’s greatest lessons.

While it took me four years of studying philosophy to clarify my thoughts on life, it took us a morning jog and a sunrise to discover life’s greatest goods: happiness and love. Thank you Dad for teaching me.