Feeding my dad

Excerpt from the memoir project: Houses We Did Not Buy

In the nursing home, everyone gathers in the dining room. Aides serve each resident individually, reading the nutritionist’s orders from small slips of paper with each resident’s name.

I pick up Dad’s tray. The little strip says, Ray Ozarow: Pureed. It lists all the items on his tray: chopped chicken, chopped asparagus, chopped kasha varnishkes. Which i…