One of my first bike trips at the cottage went on km’s longer than I originally expected, and once tired, I found a couple who told me of a quicker return path. They told me I would pass by the ‘best fish and chips place around’. We decided to try them out and a few days later we sat in their outside dinning area while we waited for our food to be served. Not really hungry, I had ordered one piece of fish and one piece of fried bread, the latter being thrown in as an afterthought to add starch to my meal. I anticipated receiving a thick cut piece of white bread with butter on it cooked in a fry pan.
The waitress walked over with my bread ahead of the ordered fish, and it didn’t look at all like I imagined. I tore off a small piece thinking I would keep most of it to eat with my fish and pushed it into my mouth. Within seconds, tears threatened to stream down my face. “What’s wrong?” my sister asked. Words wouldn’t come out so I just shook my head. As I had closed my mouth the scent of the bread drifted into my lungs and brought a familiar feeling, but it was the taste that overwhelmed me. It tasted like Nana- no, not her flesh, but the taste of the breads and donuts she used to make. I have precious few memories of my Nana even though we lived next door, mostly because I don’t remember my younger years; she moved when I was about ten and died a few years later. The only thing I recall in her house was a woodpecker toothpick picker she had that I used to play with. The rest of my memories are of Nana preparing food at the counter or table in her house while I sat and watched. Sometimes she would indulge me with a piece of lemon. What I remember most is Nana’s delicious treats: placinta, angel wings, pizzellas, and the donuts/bread that my fried bread reminded me of.
My sister tried a piece without knowing anything about the memories flooding in, and I could tell by her face that she knew… and sure enough, she expressed my thoughts verbally. Everyone else in our group tried a piece, but of them, only my mom knew the bread tasted like Nana’s, so by the time we left, everyone had purchased fried bread for themselves.
As we drove away I was still remembering my Nana and the smells and tastes that surrounded her life. The warmth of those precious times watching her stayed with me all night. Sitting down at the restaurant that day I did not receive what I anticipated; instead I was given a blessing that I wouldn’t have conceived of. Only my Father could arrange everything that was needed, in the order needed, to bestow that kind of blessing on me.
He’s such a great Dad!