My dad would say, shall we say grace? We'd hesitate, hold hands, watch him close his eyes with meaning, then say, "Grace!" and laugh. Then we'd get to the business at hand, laid out on our plates, ready to consume. But dinner, we found, could be a playground, as my father marched his peas one by one up the mound of mashed potatoes, small green soldiers scaling a mountain. The unlucky ones would be crushed by the canon fire of my father's falling finger. Some would make it to the ship of meat and sail away into the sea and be lifted into his whale-sized mouth. Dessert was another run to the liquor store with my father, for another bottle of Thunderbird for him, and my brother and I choosing candy bars. Back home, the crack of the bottle's cap, my father making us laugh while we did homework at the counter. Sometimes, he'd play piano. And he'd sing Simon and Garfunkel or Barry Manilow. My father's voice bellowing out of tune while I figured long division.