A meal for my father from Brazil, with love

My best memories of my father have always revolved around food in my native São Paulo. The smells of salami mixed with baked bread in the Basilicata, the Italian grocer. A stolen taste of fresh beaten crème Chantilly before it had time to get home from the bakery. Ice cream dripping down our elbows.

Food was a language we shared. It declared our bond, telegraphed our moods and was the usual currency on awkward bribes. I could be persuaded to do almost anything if there was a bowl of sweet strawberries at the end of the deal. And as soon as my dad realized he could educate my taste buds, I became his Sancho Panza on quixotic adventures around kitchens everywhere.

It was with gusto that we attacked my mom's spaghetti with calamari tomato sauce, ignoring the spaghetti as much as possible. Center stage to us was the calamari, the sauce mopped by chunks of baguette, and we relished the horrified expression of my sisters as we savored the wiggly tentacles. A special occasion for me was to sit in a fishermen's bar by the sea and try my first oyster. There was only pride in my father's eyes when I asked for seconds.

I knew dad wasn't too happy with my choice in a boyfriend when one Easter he paid someone to hide the boy's chocolate egg on top of the tallest palm tree in our backyard. The poor guy wasted hours trying to get his chocolate prize until Dad finally suggested that he use a ladder before he broke his neck. Message received: The boy is not too bright, keep looking.

Even though Dad passed away 18 years ago, I feel the need to share a meal with him, so this Sunday I will prepare a Father's Day dinner that will combine my Northwest food favorites with recipes from my homeland, and through food I will be able to span the years since we had a meal together and give his grandchildren a sense of my past in the present.

Appetizers will be a selection of salami, prosciutto and olives. I used to be fascinated by the salami and cheeses hanging from the ceiling in the old Basilicata, while old men told stories in an operatic mix of Italian and Portuguese, using as many gestures as words. To my delight, the first time my son stepped into an Italian grocer in Seattle, he turned to me and said: "Mom, this place makes me happy."

I imagine Dad's silly grin if he had the chance to help the kids clean and steam mussels for his own recipe — mussels in vinaigrette sauce. As usual, not many mussels would make their way to the table. My daughter loves them as much as we did, and the whole cleaning and steaming effort can work up an appetite.

For the main course, I would introduce Dad to the best fish Seattle has to offer, but with a Brazilian twist: whole baked salmon stuffed with salmon caviar farofa. I'm keeping the old traditions, while experimenting with new tastes.

Dessert is where it all comes together. I will serve a mango-raspberry tart. The crust takes after the Italian pasta frolla, but I added Brazil nuts to bring it "home." The cream filling is a classic European pastry cream that reflects our Portuguese-Spanish-Italian-French heritage. Mango is the fruit I used on the very first dessert Dad tasted at my first house. Raspberries grow in my backyard.

We are far, far away, but I'm adapting, Dad. I miss you. As I serve this menu Sunday, I will talk "food" with my kids and pass on our shorthand. It will be a long and lively affair as we gather around the kitchen. I have a lot of grandpa stories to share.

Raquel Pontes de Campos grew up in São Paulo, Brazil, and has lived in the Seattle area for seven years. She is a Seattle Times news-desk editor.