Bitter Memories

RemembeRED
This week, we'd like for you to write about your favorite fresh fruit or vegetable.

Share a memory of when you first tasted it, where it came from, when you last had it, a favorite way to prepare it, and such.

On the second bite I was able to declare with no reservations that this peach was the worst I had ever tasted. I spit the fuzzy skin that tickled my tongue a little too much onto the ground. Surfacing as though they heard a siren song too faint for my ears, ants eagerly discovered and celebrated my waste. A trail of bitten peach casualties behind me on the grass. The summer hadn’t been particularly hot and there had been no Biblical plague of insects on the orchard, but the peaches had gone bad.


Since my grandfather’s diagnosis, everything on his land mirrored his own life fading. Friendly animals that clucked and mooed welcomes were long gone. The grass that softened the landing steps of my running feet seemed sharper and more painful. Weeds choked the garden and blistered under a sun that felt as if it glared down in disapproval. Fruit trees bore their usual offering but with a grudge that said their heart wasn’t in their work. The peaches, along with life; had lost the sweetness.


Many harvesting seasons were behind me and I felt as though peach juice intertwined in my blood somehow. I surveyed the withering orchard and my heart sunk. Most everything had flourished under my grandfather’s watch. I had sampled everything that he had lovingly coaxed from the ground, bushes and trees; it was always perfect. Reaching out I rubbed a leaf from the peach tree between my fingers. Untrained and slightly ignorant of being a horticulturist, my only conclusion was that the trees were in mourning and missed their Master’s touch.


Perhaps one day someone would live on this farm and once again bring sweetness and beauty back. There might even be a little girl who would sit among bushels of peaches beside her grandfather on a covered porch cooled by a forgiving breeze. She would delight in the velvety texture of a peach’s flesh and would be able to work out her preteen angst under the silent companionship. For a moment under a peach tree she would be able to shed her insecurities and twirl with an imagined partner; declaring life as sweet as the peaches. Sticky, sweet peach syrup would adorn her lips as she kissed her grandparents good night and was given the freedom of being a child a little while longer.


Until then, I will mourn with the trees and leave a trail of bitter tasting memories behind me.

The Taste Of A Breadstick

There was a time when bread sticks were a centerpiece on the family table. It was a time that my Nana was still alive and we would gather every Friday night for dinner. She made homemade bread sticks that were amazing. Crunchy on the outside and melt in your mouth insides; just the right amount of butter with a hint of salt.

Every dinner started with the bread sticks being put out before the main meal was served and the family would gather around each snatching a bread stick. Then time passed by us and in a sweep of the minute hand on life's clock, Nana was suffering from Alzheimer's, the family was in chaos and the bread sticks stopped. The recipe lost when we lost her, but no family member ever lost the memory of the bread stick.

In a feeble attempt the past couple of days, I have been trying to recreate the bread stick with the hopes of once again bringing it to the table. I first ended up with something similar to those salt dough ornaments, then pretzels, next fat rolls (which oddly turned out tasting like Olive Garden's famous bread sticks...don't worry, I saved that recipe) and then finally a bread stick that turned out in flavor and texture of the ones that Nana made.

It wasn't hers though.

It was at that moment when I was facing the feeling of failure, that I realized it wasn't about the bread sticks at all. It was about her and everything we lost when her earthly life ended. It was remembering the happy memories on the farm, coming in from chasing cows and exploring woods, sitting down with the whole family to enjoy a home cooked meal together and reaching for a bread stick that was lovingly made by her hands.

As I stood there and batch after batch kneaded the dough, I thought about all the times that she so looked forward to her family coming over that she kneaded the dough for the bread sticks. I found out it is very time consuming, so it makes that single act of bread sticks with every dinner even that more special. I worried and fretted each time a pan went in the oven. What if these don't taste like hers...will I have forgotten her and that memory?

I miss the taste of that bread stick that no recipe can ever duplicate.