My father was a very smart man. Self-taught, self-educated — the kind of intelligence that didn’t need to announce itself. Old-school: suit and tie, shoes polished, briefcase by the door. The ultimate salesman because he never sold. People trusted him. They always did.

He was gentle and loving — not in speeches or grand gestures, but in the calm way he moved through a room. He was my world.

One year, my mother went on vacation, and my father — a man who considered travel optional at best — stayed home. I called him every day, just to check in, make sure the house hadn’t burned down and that he was eating something besides toast or a Costco hot dog.

Then one day he says, “You know what, Matthew? I think I’m doing something wrong. I’m making soup.”

“Okay, Papi,” I tell him, “walk me through this.”

“Well, I’ve got a can of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle…”

Pause. This is the father of a man who’s spent three decades obsessing over broths and sauces — and he’s working with Campbell’s. Maybe that’s why I adored him so much.

He says the soup isn’t heating right. I’m nearby, so ten minutes later I’m at the house.

He’s in the kitchen, tie loosened, sleeves rolled. Pot on the stove. And inside it — the entire can. Metal and all. No water bath. No pot of simmering anything. Just a bare can of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle sitting directly on the burner.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or call the fire department.

Twenty-some years later, I’m still laughing. Because even the smartest people can miss the simplest things. And sometimes love doesn’t come plated — it comes in a can, heating up just fine on its own.