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Taste of Memory (17) : A small pop-up food stall has appeared among the usual winter vendors. The menu offers simple, traditional dishes that seem to rotate daily. They're not always common dishes either--sometimes they're incredibly niche, and smell unmistakably like home--no matter where “home” is for you. The moment you take a bite, warmth floods through you, followed by an overwhelming wave of nostalgia so vivid it’s almost disorienting. For some, it’s the comfort of a childhood meal; for others, it’s the precise memory of sitting in a familiar kitchen, the echo of a loved one’s voice, or the feeling of being safe and held. The sensation is powerful but harmless, fading after a little while and leaving only a lingering warmth.
There were dozens of vendors out. Some sold small little gifts, others flowers, but most sold food. Hot, steamy, food that wreathed the cold air with smells most divine. It was a holiday market and everyone was out shopping. Abby was as well. She was looking at everything, already budgeting her money in her mind. She still needed that perfect little gift for her father. Something that said ‘I love you’ and ‘I was thinking of you’ as well as to act as a point of memory. Like a picture or an ornament. Something that had sentiment in it. The young woman was looking at an intricate carved statue when a particular scent had her turning in that direction. A blend of spices and herbs. A familiar smell. And yet Abby couldn’t place it. She didn’t know how she knew that particular scent but she did.
Following her nose like a hound dog the woman made her way to a food stand and after politely waiting in line, quickly got her order. A dish of some kind of marinated chicken, grilled over charcoal, and seasoned rice. The little paper bowel was steaming and the heat permeated her gloved fingers. Oddly excited and nervous she scooped up a bite of food, blowing on it to cool it some, and bit into it. As the juicy chicken melted in her mouth and the rice blended with it a memory hit Abby like a freight train. A bright kitchen, music playing, colors fluttering across the wall from a glass sun catcher, and her mother cooking. The smell, fragrant and comforting. Chicken sizzling on the cast iron pan, filling the entire room with the most delicious smell.
Abby didn’t remember what her mother was saying, only the timber of her voice. The lilting chatter and the laughter. The sound of cooking blending with the talk. She remembered the way the light bathed her mother in warmth. It swirled around her almost as much as the herbs and spices fragranced the room. It was a memory of a lost past. Lost time. With each bite of her food she sunk deeper into the memories of her mother, and the cooking they used to do together. It had been years since she was struck by such a vivid memory, let alone by one that both made her ridiculously happy and unbearably sad. It was a dish her mother had made, only a few times really but one she loved. So many of her memories of her mom had faded with time but Abby remembered that. She did her best to remember more but with each passing year they eroded. Parts missing or misremembered. So the vivid ‘hallucination’ that swamped her was welcome, if bittersweet. Abby didn’t even realize she had started to cry until someone asked if she was alright.
After assuring the polite stranger that she was just fine, and finishing her meal, Abby went back to that food stand. She knew the perfect gift, she just hoped the owners would assist her. She wasn’t looking to make a prophet, or do anything to publicize it. What she wanted was just the receipt so she could make it for her father. There wasn’t a better Christmas gift she could think of.
