That irreplaceable gift

A box of donuts sits open on the table, and I lick pink glaze from my fingertips as I think about the family who raised me. From the generation of the 1950s and 60s, they grew up with the American Dream - with sock hops, bell bottoms, Green Stamps, drive-ins, and stay-at-home moms. 

I am nothing like them, I think. Instead, I’m cell-phoned, laptopped, PCed, Twittered, Vined, and Pinterested; I work multiple jobs for more money that buys less; I multitask and manage the numerous interfaces of life quite smoothly for someone who did not get introduced to technology until my early thirties. 

Yet, I’ve never quite shaken the dietary influences of my childhood. I fry my eggs in bacon grease; I fill every square of my Saturday-morning waffle with sweet cream butter; and if my French toast is made with sourdough, I deem it healthy.  

It’s not that I’m uneducated about food. I’ve studied glutens, GMOs, BHAs, BHTs, Nitrates, and Nitrites. I avoid Acesulfame Ks, Aspartame, and saccharin. I buy grass-fed, free-range beef, and I eat eggs laid by joyful hens, chickens who refuse hormone injections, who walk freely on the sturdy spindles of their own two legs, who have names like Randy Red Macomber and Sally Twofeather. 

Nevertheless, this doesn’t stop me from indulging in the occasional Fluffernutter. Jar of Jif in one hand and Marshmallow Crème in the other, I spread my fillings thick and chomp the sandwich down, knowing I’ll soon be dizzy from the surge of sugar in my blood. Spaghettios tempt me, too, served bubbling hot in a blue and white bowl, similar to my mother’s old Corningware. 

On the glittering Formica of our tabletop, she often set two steaming helpings of Franco-American between us, its mushy, delectable flavor a veritable marriage between noodles and sauce that tasted like Campbell’s tomato soup. Auburn hair pulled up in a bun, blue eyes smiling, she sat across from me, her only child, spending time—that precious commodity, that irreplaceable gift. 

And my Uncle Jim. While electric blankets lazed me into late morning, he braved the Connecticut winter, creeping out before dawn to heed the call of the neighborhood bakery. When I woke, a wrinkled, white bag faithfully awaited me on the counter. It crinkled as I opened it, breaking the silence of the Sunday morning kitchen as I breathed the sweetness within—raised chocolate lemons, raspberry jellies, and cinnamon cake donuts. 

Red Rose tea was essential, too. My cousin Dennis steeped it on school mornings, adding honey and Half and Half to our cups, then sat across from me at the table, where we savored the crunch of Pepperidge Farm cinnamon toast and the chewiness of its raisins. Between every sip of brew, he told me stories about my father, and I drank in every word, savoring the time he spent with me, that precious commodity, that irreplaceable gift. 

My cousins and I also looked forward to Thursday nights. Shadowed by impending dusk, we lined up at the Ice Cream Shoppe, giddily waiting for cake cones—EAT-IT-ALL No. 4—to be soft-serve filled, swirled, and dipped—strawberry-pink masterpieces that matched the color of the walls. Their sleek wax cracked on the way to our mouths, leaking vanilla rivulets, tributaries that wound their way to our mouths, hands, and shirts. 

And my mother, every time we deplaned at the San Francisco airport, rushed toward her one true love—See’s Candies—a treat she could not find on the East Coast. Gripping my small hand, she led me to the black and white cubby of the store, purchased her nuts and chews, then beelined to the Lazy Susan of luggage to wrestle with our Samsonites. Finally, she dashed to our Hertz rent-a-car, threw our belongings in the trunk, tucked me into the back seat, then scooched in close, pulling the treasured package from its bag. There, with sudden calm, she set it on her lap and lifted the lid as if uncovering the Sapphire of Queen Marie. Inside sat squares of caramel in shades of milk and dark, lumps of almonds and peanuts covered in chocolate, and ever generous, my mother held the box out first to me. 

My waistline reflects my love of family. Some have moved to the next world or a neighboring state, yet just one bite of those familiar foods sends me back to the rapture of my youth, to moments when I could simply look across the span of a tabletop and see a beloved face. Those dear relatives gave me bowls filled with love, bags full of thoughtfulness, cups brimming with care, boxes of togetherness, all of them offerings that told me I was a precious commodity, an irreplaceable gift.