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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.
It had been easy enough, at first, to ignore the little food pop up when he’d first caught wind of it. Angus didn’t have a lot of feelings one way or the other when it came to what he shoved down his gob, after all. He liked food, of course! But he had very few emotional attachments to it. Thus, when the stall had appeared amidst all the other holiday themed tatteries, he’d been able to keep walking. It smelled good to walk by and certainly people were flocking in daily. But he’d had very little interest in the changing menus. He was the wrong audience for Turkish Delight and while hot buttered toast was lovely, he could make that for himself at home. He couldn’t even remember what else he’d seen sold and he walked past the place everyday on his lunch breaks at the shop.
Oh, but today was different. Today, his nose had led him to the stall’s threshold and he’d stood there for a moment staring at the little sign that explained the offerings. Well, hell. They’d managed to come up with something that he simply couldn’t resist. Fresh, highland oatcake with butter and jam. The smells that wafted out were just like the ones he remembered from when his parents would take him to visit his grandparents. Marvelous. Sighing a little, he stepped up to the counter and ordered, making sure that he asked for enough for Bindi and the kids too. As he watched everything get packaged up neatly, the fellow taking his order grinned and asked whether he’d prefer raspberry or rhubarb & ginger for his jam. They had rhubarb & ginger?!? And raspberry? Well, okay, raspberry wasn’t exactly hard to find, but how did they know…?
“Any chance o’both? And maybe a wee oakcake for me tae nibble on my way? Wit’ rhubarb & ginger, please. An’ dinae skimp on the butter.”
By the time he left he had a neatly packed and beribboned box under one arm that held oatcake, small tubs of butter and jam and instructions on proper re-heating. In his other hand was a half-wrapped oatcake dripping in fresh butter and slathered thickly with jam. He let himself enjoy the scent for a moment, reveling in the buttery, warm spiciness. Then, he took a bite and nearly fell over as the flavors he remembered so strongly flooded his tastebuds and took him back to those misty nights with his grandparents. He could even feel the warmth from the old fireplace gently toasting him. He could see himself sitting in grandad’s old rocker, like a wee king, listening as the beloved old man spun yarn after yarn. And granny would be at the fire toasting chunks of oatcake and putting butter and jam on them before passing the treats around. Why, he could even hear the soft, tinkling echo of their laughter as he gobbled his own up ravenously. There would be jokes and more stories. And then the music. Grandad had owned a fiddle and on quiet nights he’d play for them in the firelit kitchen. For a moment, Angus swayed where he stood, locked in the memory of that music and how happy and warm and safe he’d felt in that kitchen. When all that had mattered had been spending time with his grandparents…
He felt wrapped in warmth for another moment more before the sensation faded gently, leaving him standing on the sidewalk looking slightly dazed. Looking down at the oatcake in his hand, he wondered if he should toss it all away, but that feeling of nostalgia and warmth stayed his hand. If this was part of the usual seasonal strangeness, was it really so bad? The memory hadn’t hurt. Sure, he was tearing up thinking about it, but it hadn’t harmed him. He could still feel a trace of that warmth within his heart and he welcomed it in. He resumed walking and carefully ate the remainder of his little snack. The strong memories didn’t come back like previously, but he made himself think about them as he ate.
Some memories, it turned out, he was happy to look over and sit with for a little bit.
Word Count = 702
