Illustration by Cate Andrews
On the brink of Father’s Day and the kickoff of summer vacations, I began to reflect on both my relationship with my dad and our annual shore vacation. My pops is a man of routine, simplicity. He tunes in to sports, local news and old episodes of “The Office.” Each morning, he starts his day with coffee, a cigarette and a puff or two. He’s not someone I would call a foodie. My parents have been divorced since I was just a few years old, and he lives in Philadelphia, so I don’t see him as often as I would like. But when the season shifts and the days get longer, I can always count on a Mellon family trip to the shore and plenty of onion dip.
Yes, the Jersey Shore — the stretch of sandy beach dotted with midcentury motels featuring kitschy tropical accents and an easy destination for East Coast vacationers hailing from Philly, New York and Baltimore. And while the stigma attached to Wildwood has only been amplified since Snooki and Pauly D surfaced in pop culture in the late 2000s, the shore will always be a place that makes me feel connected to my dad and his side of the family.
For the Mellons, Wildwood is where we, well, get a little wild. During those four to five days, I abandon my epicurean lifestyle and, between Miller Lites and freezer-chilled Tastykakes, embrace my slightly subdued lowbrow side. Much like a vacation to a new city or a trip abroad, I immerse myself in the culture — spiked teas and onion dip, hotel balconies, and maybe even a cigarette or two (sorry, Mom). In Wildwood, you can hang out at the beach, ride a roller coaster on the pier handled by an operator of questionable age, spend $40 attempting to win an oversized stuffed animal and have one of the best pizza slices of your life. It’s a cultural and culinary anomaly.
For the past four or five years, we’ve stayed at the same hotel. It’s a short walk to the beach, so my dad piles a buggy with coolers, chairs, and bags of potato chips and pretzels. The salty vessels are destined for dips, which the Mellons take very seriously. Shrimp dip — a recipe my dad busted out last summer that is apparently a throwback — cheddar and horseradish, and of course, the famed onion dip, the kind from a packet.
While the stigma attached to Wildwood has only been amplified since Snooki and Pauly D surfaced in pop culture in the late 2000s, the shore will always be a place that makes me feel connected to my dad.
Once we get to the beach and get situated, we sip on Twisted Teas, the bright yellow cans our shore staple. One time at an event, my aunt opened her purse to reveal a collection of cans and said, “They don’t have Twisted Teas here, so I brought my own.” It’s that serious. I gave her a head nod, proud of the ingenuity, while simultaneously chuckling because she couldn’t go without her libation of choice.
A few summers ago, a local company there, Sea Isle, released its version of spiked iced tea. The malt beverage was the talk of the shore; my younger brother told me the hot-weather commodity made with black tea was selling out as soon as it hit shelves. Of course, we had to track some down.
And, for some reason, we always grab a handle of Bacardi Bahama Mama, a premixed vodka cocktail that you simply “chill and enjoy.” It’s as sugary and delicious and painful as it sounds, often leading to a rough recovery the next day. But my dad and I are creatures of habit, so the tradition lives on. Both wearing floppy bucket hats, we sip out of our matching reusable cups, laughing at groups of extra plump seagulls trying to steal snacks from beachgoers. Later, we’ll grab a slice from Mack’s — not the new one but the OG spot that has been around since 1953 — to soak up the booze.
I will always cherish the simple joys of having a cold one with my dad, of seeing his gray-blue eyes light up as we laugh over something silly, and doing so in a place where he grew up and made his own memories. And even though it’s only a few days once a year, I can still hear the rumble of the yellow tram car on the boardwalk, I can smell the sugar from the saltwater taffy store, I can see the shaker of Parmesan on the counter at the pizza joint, and I can taste the salty, tangy onion dip. Memories of my dad are anchored by these candid and carefree moments at the shore.
Never miss a Sunday Story: Sign up for the newsletter, and we’ll drop a fresh read into your inbox at the start of each week. To keep up with the latest posts, search for the hashtag #SundayStory on Twitter and Facebook.
