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D: None of the Above

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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

We’ve only visited The Fly, a grassy area behind Audubon Park in New Orleans that sits along the edge of the Mississippi River, four times, and yet we can’t possibly travel to the Crescent City without stopping there.

A wide open space that draws students from nearby Tulane and Loyola universities, residents of all ages, screeching seagulls and supersized cormorants that look like genetically altered cousins of Long Island’s water foul, The Fly has hosted some of our most enjoyable visits to see our freshman son in college.

The first time we walked to The Fly, our son was in that miserable, confusing, bees-buzzing-around-his-overlong-hair state when he wasn’t sure where he wanted to attend college and when everything, particularly enthusiastic parents, was irritating.

We had to wait what seemed like forever in searing heat for a freight train with endless cars to cross in front of us to climb over a small hill and reach The Fly. The endless train took so long to pass at a snail’s pace that my son and I sat down on dry grass, while my wife took a few pictures. We tried to keep the moment light, even though our son felt the weight of college uncertainty on his broad shoulders.

When the gates finally went up and we crossed the tracks, the first thing I noticed was the relief the refreshing gusts of wind that came off the river provided.

As we approached the water, we passed young families sitting on blankets and eating picnic lunches, college students playing “never have I ever” games and birds lifting off and circling the shoreline of the river, using their bodies as kites in the swirling winds.

The open green space between the back of the zoo at Audubon Park and the river energized my son and me, calling to us to play.

As we inched closer to the pathway near the river, we stared into the active water, which looked as busy as a bustling city. The main current in the middle traveled one way, while swirling eddies circled near the shore.

Sitting on a sturdy wooden bench, we soaked in the scene and could see our son’s shoulders lower and his breathing slow. The water show helped allay any anxiety he had about class assignments, making friends, learning about a new place, or living far from home.

An ocean going cargo ship passed within 100 feet of us. These enormous ships, sometimes pulled by muscular tugboats, seemed impossibly close, acting like an outdoor theater with an oversized screen.

During several other visits to The Fly, we have delighted in the unexpected. Once, we brought a football and ran patterns in a heavy but warm rain while my wife watched comfortably from the car. Playing on an empty, soggy field with my son made me feel as if I were jogging through the fountain of youth.

While the Fly has become one of my favorite places to visit, I have increasingly come to see settings as much more than backdrops for life and action: they have become like characters, encouraging, inspiring, challenging and reviving us. Like the salty smell of West Meadow Beach, they can also give us the chance to travel through time in our minds, reminding us of earlier visits and the people who traveled with us through life to these locations.

Our son has visited The Fly several times over the last few months. He has taken short videos of the moving water, the frolicking birds, and that first wooden bench where we shared a respite from the college process. The videos he sends are a short visit with him and our friend The Fly.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

It’s been a long time since I took a child to a playdate or to the first day of a kindergarten class. And yet, I felt as if I had gone through a time warp recently when my daughter, who is home for spring break, and I took our three-year-old dog Bear for his second visit to a dog run.

While I’m sure many dog owners are familiar with the process, I found the collection of dogs circling trees, bushes and owners fascinating and familiar.

When we arrived, several dogs played in groups of shifting sizes while their owners, like anxious parents hoping their children play well together, stood by, observing the action and preparing to intercede.

Dog owners looked back and forth at my daughter and me, trying to figure out which of the collection of pets straight of a Dr. Seuss book filled with colorful illustrations of dogs of all shapes and sizes was ours.

That process isn’t as obvious as the genetics of trying to match the faces of young children with the parents standing by, waiting for the bell to ring and a teacher to bring their children inside.

Like protective parents, many of the dog owners watched their pets carefully, not only to make sure they were behaving, but also to ensure that none of the other dogs was threatening them.

Some dog owners shared stories about their dogs, much as my children’s classmates had done over 15 years ago, talking about what their dogs like to do and how eager they are for their dogs to get out all their energy now, so they’ll sleep well. Just as it does for young children, a day of healthy activities means a good night’s sleep.

A medium-sized dog paused in a puddle, stomping in the squishy mud. Her owner raced over and barked at Roxy to “stop,” annoyed that her paws looked like they had brown booties.

Meanwhile, a giant dog with the name Zeus written on a horse collar lumbered from one group to another, his head held higher than other dogs who came up to his shoulder.

Bear shifted from one group to another, awed by the athletic prowess of two huge dogs that vaulted onto a picnic table. 

At one point, Bear trotted to the other extreme end of the park, almost out of sight. I whistled for him and, despite his tendency to ignore me at home, he immediately picked up his head and pitched his ears forward. I signaled for him to come back and, to my amazement, he jogged the length of the field, where my daughter and I pet him appreciatively.

While Bear played with the other canines, he also visited every pet owner, thrusting his head towards their knees and staring up at them with his best “I-know-you’re-a-dog-person-so-please-pet-me” face.

An aggressive dog barked and nipped at the others who had been playing peacefully. After the newcomer lunged at Bear three times, he trotted to the exit, glancing over his shoulder periodically to make sure we were coming. We obediently followed.

Once we were near our car, an unleashed dog raced around the lot, as his owner shouted for Oliver repeatedly to come back and to stay away from cars moving slowly enough to avoid loose dogs.

As we drove home, with our dog panting from the exertion in the back seat, I glanced at our daughter and appreciated the brief trip down memory lane when we brought her home from playing with her peers.

Our dog has no intention of trekking off to college, even if he’s eager to explore the world of our neighbors’ houses, where the grass sometimes seems greener.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

When my daughter was young, one of her favorite songs was “Old MacDonald.” Maybe she loved it because it was a song about farm animals and we lived in Manhattan, where most of our non-human wildlife consisted of squirrels and pigeons.

When she was an infant, she could make an incredibly convincing pigeon coo, thanks to hearing them all day long outside her window.

Maybe she also liked the song because, unlike Bette Middler’s “The Rose” and “One” from “A Chorus Line,” my wife and I couldn’t butcher the relatively simple melody with our unimpressive singing skills.

Anyway, she liked to say “duck” when we got to the animal on the farm. She liked ducks, or maybe the “quack quack” sound so much that she’d protest when we told her the farm already had a duck. She would say, “another duck,” to keep us quacking. The song and the quacks made car rides more palatable.

The song popped into my head recently when a friend told me that his second daughter was pregnant with their fourth grandchild. My friend has three daughters. His fourth grandchild is a girl, which means he’ll also have four granddaughters.

He was extremely pleased to share the news by email about “another granddaughter,” and he has every right to be. He is preparing for the seventh consecutive girl in his immediate family.

Then again, I couldn’t help thinking how he or the rest of the world would have felt if he had a grandson. Would that be a greater cause for celebration because they had a boy in their midst? I suspect he doesn’t, and didn’t, care.

For so many people, the gender doesn’t matter as long as the baby and mother (and somewhere in there, hopefully, the father) are healthy.

When my daughter was born, the big surprise was that I, unlike my parents or my older brother, could have a girl. As I told my wife, as the second of three boys and an uncle to two nephews, I expected to continue the male tradition.

My daughter started out proving me wrong and, thankfully, continues to do so regularly.

Once I’d broken the ‘all boys’ pattern, I was convinced my son was a girl, so, he, too, defied our expectations.

So, what is it with gender reveal parties? Is it another way to celebrate a coming birth? Is it a way to unveil one of the few mysteries left before birth?

In an era that increasingly understands and supports the transgender population, gender reveal parties seem anachronistic, celebrating a birth gender that may conflict with a person’s developing identity.

Like so many other events, such as a first birthday party that a child will never remember, a gender reveal party may be a way to celebrate the parents, giving them a chance to anticipate the coming birth and to imagine life as the parent of a boy or girl.

Gender reveal parties have received bad press because of the injuries from pyrotechnics and other exploding blue or pink streamers or images. But maybe beyond the danger from these explosions, the gender reveal also pigeon holes children into specific color patterns.

Don’t we want our children to think for themselves, even about their favorite colors, instead of limiting them to blue for boys or pink for girls?

Maybe, instead of colors or gender, we can celebrate the sounds of their heartbeat, the Alien-like moments when we can see their feet in their mom’s abdomen, or the foods their mothers crave during pregnancy.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

If I knew exactly when Russian president and peace shatterer Vladimir Putin were planning to attack Ukraine, I could be spectacularly rich.

Putin, however, knew exactly when he was going to give the order to start shooting, causing markets around the world to plunge.

No stranger to making a buck or two, Putin, whose wealth is estimated in the billions, may have seen the opportunity to create suffering for everyone else, while making himself even richer.

Have options markets around the world checked the trading just before the day he started killing people in Ukraine? Does anyone know whether he, through shell companies or, perhaps even more directly, through trades he holds in his own name, made a financial killing by destroying neighborhoods and shattering peace on a scale not seen since World War II?

Maybe he positioned his portfolio just as he was moving his military. He could have also dabbled in the commodities markets, where wheat, aluminum and gold prices have soared.

While the Russian president may not need the money personally, he could offset some of the effect of sanctions through the equivalent of his own “big short” on stock markets, betting in a game he helped control that the markets would fall.

Putin could have gone to stock markets outside of Russia, where he could have set up huge trades just a few days before a move the previous president of the United States described as “genius.”

Perhaps Donald Trump, who is also no stranger to capitalizing on financial opportunities, recognized the financial move Putin was making. Putin doesn’t appear to care much about the people he’s displacing or the Russian soldiers who may no longer return to their families to pursue a war against a neighbor whose biggest offense seems to be that they live in a democracy and want to join NATO, whose members consider an attack against one of them as an attack against all of them. As the “Between You and Me” column in these papers from last week made clear, Ukraine has abundant natural resources, which raise its appeal to Putin. At the same time, though, maybe he also saw this move as a chance to make money and to stay relevant.

It’s not every day that people write your name, even if it’s for nefarious actions, in papers throughout the world. Sitting on a stockpile of nuclear weapons that could easily turn Global Warming into a distant afterthought if he and his intended targets used them, Putin is dominating news coverage around the world, displacing COVID. Too bad there’s no vaccine for the world’s population against Putin.

By putting his nuclear forces on high alert after disrupting peace with his attack on Ukraine, he also gets to play bully and victim at the same time. He’s a bully for sending his armed forces into a neighboring country and killing men, women and children. Bullets don’t discriminate between innocent civilians and members of an opposition’s armed forces.

He is also a victim, claiming the heated rhetoric against his military’s unprovoked attack is enough of a threat to him that he needed to put his nuclear arsenal on high alert. His despotic desperation suggests maybe he needs a hug or some counseling.

He also defies logic by calling the Jewish president of Ukraine, Voldymyr Zelenskyy a “neo-Nazi,” when some of Zelenskyy’s own ancestors died in the Holocaust.

Putin may not make sense, but, at least in the first few days after his unjustified attack, he may be making tons of money.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Even before the pandemic, stand up comics, who took to the air to entertain the rest of us with their clever observations, often spent considerable time describing the absurdities of airline travel.

The process, as each airline and each airport appears to have somewhat different rules, has become even more bizarre.

Each airline has its own baggage limitations. For some larger planes, you can take one carry-on and one personal bag. For some smaller planes, however, especially if you’ve bought the cheapest seats on smaller flights, which we do as a rule, you can only bring one carry-on. You can’t even get a boarding pass unless someone comes and inspects the size of your bag.

Once you have your boarding pass, you head to security with your mask on.

The first screener who checks boarding passes and IDs has to have one of the harder jobs. Everyone is trying to catch a plane, which means that, even if they are early, they are still under time pressure. Many feel the need to share their sense of urgency with people who fly under the radar in our lives unless something goes wrong. When these security agents do their jobs well, we expect it, and when they don’t, we are outraged, frustrated, annoyed and irritable. It’s a bit like being a referee or an effective traffic cop.

Anyway, we shuffle up to the line with the largest possible bag that won’t require checking. When we get to the front, we hand our ID and ticket over, wait for the cue, and then lower our masks.

I like watching people lower their masks. Many feel the need to smile, as if the person is taking a picture of them. It’s ironic because the photo from a driver’s license or a passport looks much more like a 6 a.m. mug shot than a, “this-is-me, this-is-my-face, I’m-about-to-go-somewhere-awesome smile.”

Every so often, someone is selected for random additional screening. On a recent trip, they checked my wife’s phone on the way out and my phone on the way back.

During that trip, one of the conveyer belts that enables the screener to look at x-rays of our underwear was moving especially slowly. Each time a new person approached the conveyor belt, that person could and sometimes did push his or her huge suitcase ahead of the ones from the people who were ahead of them.

Fortunately for me, I travel with a small but powerful force of nature, also known as my wife. She doesn’t allow dysfunctional systems to slow us down, even if that involves shaming people who are trying to shove their suitcases ahead of the ones on the belt.

My wife was so effective that the system not only worked as it should for the few minutes we stood there, but a TSA agent jumped in to reinforce what my wife was doing.

Once we get on a plane, the battle for overhead space begins, with the special people getting first dibs on that space while the people in the last groups get the leftovers. It’s so Darwinian: people who spend extra money are the Alpha Fliers, while those who fly economy get the scraps, with flight attendants telling them to gate check their allowable luggage, which will hopefully be waiting for them on the jetway when we arrive.

People jockey for position at baggage check, where they want to stand directly on a line with the ramp that delivers their luggage magically from below. I’m sure that magic requires considerable lifting and hefting from the people we rarely see.

The final competitive positioning occurs at the curb, where the faces of tired fliers often look much more like the pictures from their IDs than the faces they make at the beginning of their trips. The tired fliers stare at approaching vehicles, looking for their Ubers, family members, or buses to bring them back to their world.

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

A friend who is the same age as I am recently and suddenly died, leaving behind a wife and two daughters in college who are the same age I was when my father died.

I feel like I’m at the center of a prism, with light bouncing out in so many directions that it’s difficult to track each path.

I am devastated for my friend. I know he will miss many of the same things my father never got to experience. He won’t see his daughters graduate from college, develop their careers, and enjoy learning about themselves through relationships.

He also won’t get to wake up another morning and see his wife’s smile, make plans for the day, and make the kinds of decisions we take for granted, like where to go on vacation, whom to see over the weekend, what friend to call and visit, or how to brighten someone else’s day.

I knew him as a dedicated father, who beamed when he spoke of his twin daughters. Unlike so many other parents whose children play sports, he didn’t need his daughters to be superstars. His joy mirrored theirs. 

I’m sorry for his wife, too, who shared two decades of experience with him and their two children. She went from being in an empty nest to being in an empty house in 18 months. Everywhere she looks, she will see reminders of her husband and the life they shared.

I relate to his daughters. I know how strange it is to be in college, surrounded by friends who suddenly don’t know what to say to them. If friends ask the girls how they are doing, will they tell them, leaving many of their friends without the tools, experience or words to respond?

Death leaves a hole in our lives. The friends they have in college, like mine decades ago, may not know about that hole and may not have even met the man missing from the center of their lives.

A week after I buried my father, I was back at school, finding it difficult to concentrate or even to care about upcoming exams or responsibilities. 

When I told a math professor about my loss, he went out of his way to tutor me, to ask me how I was, and to be patient, waiting for me to tell him when I was ready to take a midterm. He arranged for me to take an exam on my own. He made a point of looking for me after each lecture. I appreciated the support and, yet, I felt so weak and angry that I needed it.

I remember the first horrifying moment I didn’t feel the weight of the loss of my father. I was wracked with guilt. What kind of son was I that I had, even for a moment, neglected to mourn?

I also recall the first person I met in those turbulent few weeks who didn’t know my story, who treated me like everyone else and who didn’t say she was sorry for my loss. We had the closest thing to a normal evening, which, at that time, was extraordinary.

In the weeks, months and years ahead, my friend’s daughters will remember the great moments with their father. They will look back at their idyllic childhoods and remember the mom and dad who made that possible.

In the days ahead, however, they will feel a flood of emotions and have a range of thoughts. I hope that they find the kind of peace that comes from appreciating what they had and knowing that, no matter how much they might feel this way, they are not alone and that others share their experiences and care for them.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

At the same time that TV advertisements often frustrate me because I’d like to find out what happens next in the show I’m watching, I appreciate the messages people are trying to send.

Sometimes, the ad is such a loss for me that I figure I couldn’t possibly be the target audience.

There’s that ad for a chocolate bar that makes a woman float in a store. Right, because eating that specific type of chocolate creates such a trippy, LSD-type experience that she not only feels incredible and floats above everyone else in the store, but the other customers see her floating.

“Look, up in the sky. It’s a bird. It’s a plane. Nope, it’s just another person who ate the trippy chocolate bar that lets them float to the ceiling!”

Then there are all the ads for medical products that could cure something, but that have such severe side effects that the risks may not be worth the cure.

“We might cure your hiccups,” the ad suggests, “or we might cause you to have such trouble breathing that you should stop taking our medicine and see a doctor.”

That brings me to the ad for Truist.

Have you seen their ads, with the pile of soft stuff that looks like an old collection of the stuffed animals my children used to win at boardwalk games or receive for birthday presents?

This pile of soft things rolls along, helping people by recovering hats that blow off at the beach, bringing a spare tire to a man stuck on the side of the road, or delivering a flower to a girl waiting on a bench with her mother.

Being the OCD parent that I am, I would probably say to my daughter, “Don’t take anything from a blob that’s been rolling on the filthy street!”

I imagine the idea for the rolling blob that cares could have originated in a number
of ways.

“George” might have forgotten that he needed to come up with an ad while he was racing to wake his daughter for school. Seeing the pile of stuffed animals he was supposed to help clean up in her room, he thought, “Hmmm, if I throw this in my car, it’ll look like I cleaned up and maybe I can use it as a part of my work.”

Once he arrived at the office, he threw the stuffed animals on the table, hoping he wouldn’t get fired and, just as importantly, that he didn’t lose any of her treasured toys.

Or, perhaps, “Andrea” couldn’t sleep the night before she had to present an idea. At 3:21 a.m. she watched an old western. There, in between the John Wayne dialog and the crescendo to a gunfight, she found inspiration. Rolling across the screen was the ubiquitous tumbleweed.

“That’s it!” she thought, as she imagined Tumbleweed 2.0, the modern version of an iconic image of the Old West. Instead of a collection of dried out grass, the modern Truist Tumbleweed (at that hour, alliteration is awesome!) is composed of soft, plush stuffed animals. And, instead of being indifferent to the plight of the people it passes, the Truist Tumbleweed cares, lending a stuffed animal hand.

“George” and “Andrea” may have moved on to other jobs. Or, thinking outside the box, they may have gotten a promotion. They could use some of that extra money to buy risky remedies or trippy chocolate. And, hey, if they have any problems, the Truist Tumbleweed is ready to show it cares.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

We are stuck in a headline and news cycle rut. Please find below some fantasy headlines, and the sources or unlikeliest of sources, for those news flashes.

— “Kardashian women decide not to show any more skin” – People Magazine. In the interests of encouraging people to dress appropriately for winter weather and to draw attention to their ideas rather than their bodies, the Kardashians decide that revealing less of their over-exposed bodies will aid society.

— “President Biden had a great day” – The New York Post. Granted, President Biden hasn’t exactly created a stellar track record in his first year in office – the withdrawal from Afghanistan clearly could have gone better – but the The New York Post seems intent on providing a steady stream of stories excoriating him for everything.

— “Former President Trump tells the whole truth and nothing but the truth” – The Washington Post. Fond of fact checking the former president, the Washington Post would certainly attract attention with a fact check that suggests the former leader of the free world was being honest.

— “Senator McConnell itching to approve Biden’s Supreme Court pick” – The New York Times. Using unnamed sources, of course, the Times could break one of the biggest stories of the decade if McConnell somehow signaled that he was eager to give a liberal Supreme Court nominee the benefit of the doubt and his full support.

— “Giants and Jets get A’s for effort” – New York Daily News. It seems obvious and easy to pick on losing sports teams, particularly those that haven’t delivered for rabid fans for years. Hometown papers could recognize the effort, even if the results aren’t there.

— “We don’t really know, but look out your window” – the Weather Channel. I give weather.com credit for calling last weekend’s nor’easter well. About five days before a single flake fell, they knew that a big storm had the potential to form and dump tons of snow in the area. They were right. Then again, all of that technology doesn’t always play out scenarios accurately. It’d be funny and fitting if they said on the air, “big storm could be coming our way. Or not.”

— “Inflation totally under control” – CNBC. Despite evidence to the contrary at the gas pump, in the supermarket and just about anywhere people have to pay for goods or services, wouldn’t it be great if inflation somehow, magically, came under control, giving the Fed the chance to stay on the sidelines for an economy still recovering from the pandemic?

— “Fauci appreciates the respect and support of Senator Rand Paul” — Reuters. Okay, so, this may be among the least likely of the headlines, but, wouldn’t it be nice/ shocking if the two doctors somehow were on the same page?

— “Spirit of bipartisanship sweeps through Washington” – Politico. Yeah, sure, we can dream. Dems and Repubs aren’t seeing eye to eye on anything. In fact, they seem to be energizing their bases by attacking the other side. Still, the day such a report came out would indeed be a chance to celebrate.

— “Children rediscover books” – Apple News Spotlight. Disenchanted with electronics, children around the world left social media for a day and enjoyed interacting with characters like Horton, Mr. Tumnus, Meg Murry, Alec Ramsey and Emma Woodhouse.

— “Hero scientists behind life saving vaccines” – Fox News. Despite some members of conservative media taking vaccines to protect themselves and their families, they and their guests sometimes praise those who resist vaccines and question the legitimacy of the vaccines for others.

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Photo from Facebook

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Even when I’m squinting through a deluge that floods my front windshield, I can see sprinklers on timers, throwing water on lawns drenched with rain.

That image captures the sometimes feckless nature of the routine and periodic token efforts we engage in and that reflect our modern reality.

To that end, I thought I’d share similar similes and phrases to capture the moment.

Like a pencil on an airplane. Sure, pencils are helpful when doing crossword puzzles. On a plane on the way to another country, though, pencils serve no purpose in filling out the necessary paperwork to enter customs. When my family travels, I pack black and blue pens in my carry-on bag.

Like a mask worn around the chin. Exhausted from wearing masks, people have dropped these potentially protective pieces of equipment to their chins, even after they are done eating or drinking. These masks, while visible, are only effective at hiding double chins.

Like a concerned automated voice on a customer service line. I have been on far too many calls where it’s clear the company has no interest in allowing me to speak to an actual person. After pushing 18 buttons and waiting through music that makes Kenny G sound like a symphony, a sickly sweet voice tells me how important my call is to “us,” which sounds suspiciously like a corporate version of a dystopian leadership. If my call were truly important, I wouldn’t have to wait over an hour for someone to pick up the phone, tell me she can’t hear me, and suggest I call back later.

Like an expired coupon. Sometimes, I think the coupons I get in the mail have either expired before they arrive or, like a message to Ethan Hunt in the Mission: Impossible movie franchise, will self destruct in five seconds. That way, I’ll get the offer for something that piques my interest, like half off a turkey sandwich, and then I’ll have to pay full price as sympathetic store clerks tell me they’d be happy to throw the expired discount in the garbage, which is really the most they can do.

Like another set of incomprehensible instructions. Do you ever struggle with the directions to assemble something, staring at pictures of objects that often look nothing like the assortment of pieces assembled in front of you? These instructions use vocabulary that doesn’t make sense for objects that aren’t in the packaging.

Like someone else’s garbage when I’m carrying dog poop. My big dog makes huge poops that rival the stink of a train or airport bathroom amid extensive weather delays. While holding my nose, I pass my neighbors’ garbage cans on the street. Tempted as I might be to drop the double-knotted bag into their can, I carry the prized stink bomb back to my own garbage can.

Like a phone going off in a forest. Unlike the question of whether a proverbial tree makes a sound if no one in a forest hears it fall, I’m convinced I would hear a phone going off in a forest, especially if I were in the middle of a nap or about to write the best phrase of my life that the electroshock sound would delete from my rattled brain.

Like another chat with “Jeopardy!” host Ken Jennings. Is it me or does Jennings seem anxious Amy Schneider may threaten to eclipse his record win streak on the show? His conversations with the contestants seem especially stilted and awkward. In an answer that borrows from the game’s format: the adjective Jennings most often uses when he doesn’t know what else to say and he’s run out of forced laughter. The answer: What is “fantastic?”

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Photo from SBU

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Isaiah Nengo recalled a day years ago when he was working in a field station in Kenya, searching for fossils.

A man who had a tremendous influence on his life was on the way to alter his horizons yet again, although this time the visit would have nothing to do with science.

Richard Leakey, the late founder of the Turkana Basin Institute (TBI) and a famed paleoanthropologist and conservationist, was bringing food from his home on the coast of Kenya in Lamu to the field station.

Leakey “prepared this lobster meal,” said Nengo, who is native of Nairobi, Kenya, and is currently associate director of TBI. “It was my first seafood meal. It was fantastic. I was like, ‘I’m sitting almost 600 miles from the ocean, it’s hot as hell and I’m eating lobster.’ That always stuck in my mind.”

Leakey, who died on Jan. 2 (see a tribute to the Stony Brook legend in this week’s Arts & Lifestyles page B12), left behind a lasting scientific legacy that filled science textbooks of people around the world, while he left an enduring food legacy that filled the stomachs of family, friends, coworkers and colleagues.

People fortunate enough to dine with him shared tales of Leakey’s culinary prowess and refined tastes.

Sonia Harmand, associate professor in the Anthropology Department at Stony Brook, took a long flight with Leakey to Kenya. Leakey had a salmon meal on the plane that didn’t meet his standards.

“He called the staff, and even the pilot came by to say hi because everybody knows about him,” Harmand said. Amid the introductions, he expressed his displeasure with the salmon.

When he returned to Kenya, he wrote to the airline and complained about the food.

As a host, Leakey went out of his way to make sure all of his guests enjoyed the food he purchased, prepared and served.

Harmand said her daughter Scarlett, who will turn nine in February, enjoyed eating at Leakey’s house because he prepared mussels and oysters he knew appealed to her.

“Every time you had a meal with him, he kept on asking if you liked it,” Harmand said.

Harmand also appreciated the unexpected gifts of incongruous foods at TBI. One day, Leakey arrived with ice cream and fresh strawberries.

“We had to eat it quickly,” she recalled with a laugh.

Another long time friend and colleague, Lawrence Martin, the director of TBI, said Leakey had a fondness for some Long Island foods. He particularly enjoyed ducks, as well as oysters and mussels from Long Island’s waterways.

“He said mussels were never as good in the warm water as they were in Stony Brook,” Martin said.

When he first got to know Leakey, Martin said Leakey cooked all the meals they shared, whether they were in Stony Brook or Kenya.

Martin called Leakey a “great chef” and said his late colleague “loved good food and loved going food shopping.”

While Leakey shared important information with former Stony Brook President Shirley Kenny, he also dined on memorable meals.

When they were on their own on Long Island without their spouses, Kenny invited Leakey over to her home for a meal.

After the dinner, he thanked her and promised he would return, providing she allowed him to do the cooking.

Sharing food with Leakey often meant benefiting from his storytelling prowess and his sense of humor.

Kenny and her family went on a safari with Jim and Marilyn Simons, co-founders of the Simons Foundation and supporters of science throughout Long Island.

“At the end of the day, we would sit in a circle and have drinks and [Leakey] would regale us with stories that were absolutely wonderful,” Kenny said. “You can’t even imagine how they made these [incredible] meals when there’s nothing out there to do it with.”

With hyenas howling at night and hot showers created with water heated by the sun during the day, the entire experience was “so exotic and so elegant at the same time,” Kenny added.

Harmand said Leakey didn’t cook with the goal of winning over people, but, rather, to share a connection.

“I don’t think he needed to impress anyone,” Harmand said. “He wanted to please you through food.”

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