Baby Needs a New Pair of Shoes by Lauren Baratz-Logsted Page B

backup!” he said, opening the freezer to reveal my beloved Michael Angelo’s Four Cheese. In the past year, he’d even broken down and learned how to use the microwave.
    â€œAre you making one of Mom’s recipes or your own version?” I asked.
    â€œYour mom’s.”
    â€œThen I’ll have what you’re having.”
    Despite my devotion to all things frozen, I was always okay with eating the foods I’d grown up with.
    What was okay to eat, what wasn’t okay to eat—Hillary often said most people saw their lives in terms of choices. But not me. I saw my life in terms of a series of compulsive obsessions that were like touchstones for me—things I had to do, foods I had to eat in order to stay sane. I didn’t want to be like that. How I would have liked to learn how to be one of those people who saw their lives in terms of choices. How I would have liked to be like everyone else.
    I set the table and Dad got a bottle of Jake’s Fault Shiraz out of the fridge.
    â€œDo I know my girl or do I know my girl?” Dad asked.
    â€œYou know your girl,” I admitted.
    â€œGood.” He sat down, put a real linen napkin in his lap. (“It’s important, no matter how Fortune is going,” he’d often tell me, “to eat like a man of consequence. And the hotels never even miss the napkins.”) “Then you’ll understand when I say I know you well enough to know what’s going through that head of yours. You’ve convinced yourself that you can’t be beat, that you’re somehow smarter than the old man.”
    â€œHow…” I stopped myself before finishing the thought, which would have sounded something like, How did you know that?
    â€œHey,” he said. “Before I was old, I was young once. And I know how you think because it’s the way I used to think, ‘I’m invincible. No one can touch me.’ It’s my duty to tell you this because, as Hamlet says, ‘I must be cruel, only to be kind.’”
    â€œYeah, well, ‘neither a borrower nor a lender be,’ right back at you. But, anyway, I’ve never thought that about myself, Dad. I’ve always thought, ‘I suck. Just about anyone could destroy me.’”
    â€œStop swearing. Salad?”
    â€œAre you kidding? There are green things in there.”
    â€œSorry, my mistake. Next time, I’ll try to make the salad without vegetables. As I was saying—”
    â€œI know what you’re saying,” I said. “You’re saying I’m like you. But I’m not. I never have been.”
    â€œOh, no? Then how come you’re all of a sudden so cocky about gambling? Sure, you made a little money in Foxwoods. Hell, you did great. But that doesn’t mean you’re ready for the big time.”
    â€œI’m not looking for the big time. I’m just looking for a little…more.”
    â€œOh, right, ‘more’—I know all about ‘more.’ ‘More’ is what everyone wants after getting just a little taste. ‘More’ is dangerous.”
    I put my fork down. “Does that mean you’re not going to help me any more? ”
    â€œWho ever said that? I’m just trying to do what a father is supposed to do—protect his little girl from harm. Now clear the plates while I get the cards. I’m going to teach you how to win with the correct strategy.”

    An hour later, with Monday Night Football ready to start any minute, I knew what to do if the dealer dealt me two Eights and was showing a Ten for his own upcard.
    â€œAlways split Eights,” Black Jack said, “no matter what the dealer is showing.”
    â€œWhat if I pull another Eight?”
    â€œSplit ’em again.”
    â€œBut won’t all the other players think I’m crazy?”
    â€œWho cares what the other players think? You’re not playing against them.