This past Wednesday evening, my father Ira died at the age of 88 in his own bed, with his family nearby. He asked us not to be too sad, because he had “a wonderful life and an amazing family.” We all had a chance to tell him we loved him, and to thank him. His was certainly a life well lived.

He had absolutely everything to do with this blog, and with my love of nourishing food and good health.

He and my mom were the original hipsters. They each grew up in a tiny Brooklyn apartment, where they dreamt of farming, gardening, animals, and open air. And so, three children later, they found themselves on a small farm in West Central New Jersey where they lived for the next 44 years with their menagerie of sheep, steer, chickens, French guinea hens, peacocks, geese, cats, and generations of Belgian Sheepdogs.

The guiding principle of Ira’s life was food: growing, raising, cooking, sharing, and eating it. Meals at my parents’ home were abundant and legendary, their table a haven of generosity. When guests dropped by unexpectedly, as they did all the time, my parents simply leaned forward, pulled an endleaf from the table, and invited guests to “Pull up a chair!” Later in life, Ira shared that if he had it all to do over again, he would have become a chef. Chef Ira.

In their home, my parents embodied the imperative to let all who are hungry come and eat. In New Jersey, over the years, my father drove hundreds of pounds of grass-fed beef to the local food bank, where it was gratefully accepted and distributed. His generosity was felt far and wide, and he will be missed by so very many.

Thank you, Dad. We will miss you.