The Sweet Table in the Window

(“I’ll have what she’s having.”)

For the second consecutive Saturday we have settled into our preferred table for two in the front window of the small bakery in the nearby community.  The narrow storefront in the old building just off the square tempts with an array of fresh baked pastries and a variety of prepared toasts served on China plates.  It feels like my grandparents’ house without the rules.  Young families, with babes in arms, drift in and out, welcomed by the older couples positioned like church greeters near the door.  The basket of toys gets passed around from table to table, and around the chairs circling the large farmhouse table anchoring the center of the room.

“Give me one of those cinnamon rolls,” the senior member of the assemblage smiled when his turn came at the counter.  “One with lots of icing.”  The host surveyed the options in the tray, complied with the order and smiled in return.  They had played out this routine before.  

Where is Norman Rockwell when you need him?  The bakery is a painting begging to be brushed.  We sip our coffee out of real cups, read the news, exchange contented smiles with a couple seated nearby, reflect the delight of the kids, and savor the remnant crumbs in front of us.  It is an idyllic weekend morning.  

Next, of course, is the walking track at the nearby wellness center - in part, to mitigate the calorie intake of the morning.  But every step will be worth the exertion, as was every forkful that preceded them.  

And we will look forward to next Saturday morning, for the toys passed around, the family smiles, the elderly greetings, the topknotted hostess behind the counter, the extra icing, and the table for two in the window.

And the subsequent miles on the track.

The Flavor in the Fond

Yesterday hoarfrost sleeved the bare branches in that liminal space between darkness and light.  Skyfire red asserted the morning’s birth in the east, while a half-moon benedicted the darkness in the west.  It was a strikingly vivid moment.  I could only pause and take it in.  Pause, that is, and smile.  It was a magnificent morning.  

It all, of course, was ephemeral. Within minutes the moment had passed.  The frost melted into simple wetness.  The orange-red sprays of light coalesced into the single yellow dot well into its ascent.  The half-moon settled into its slumber below the far horizon.

Today the morning is a simple, monochromatic gray.  The air itself, thick with fog, receded into an ashen sky, around and above, as though the very trees, the chickens and all the other scurrying lives, were wine fermenting in a cement cask.  Including me.  Which is not to suggest that there is nothing today to notice, to absorb, to relish, to respond to with a smile; just to acknowledge that whatever it is will not grab us by the lapels and demand our attention.  We will have to look more closely, listen more attentively, discern more patiently.  

And amidst either day - the brilliant or the gray - to savor that which will only be there fleetingly.

Last year, I chose a word to focus me throughout the year.  “Awe” was my word of choice; to be available for even the subtlest experiences of glory.  And the word served me well.  If much of my passage through life had resembled that beginning sequence in The Wizard of Oz - largely black and white - this past year dropped into the land of Oz where everything was more than met the eye and all in technicolor.  

But as the year ended, I realized that simple awe - as precious and life-giving as it is - is not finally enough.  To see is not enough.  To viscerally palpitate is not enough.  What is seen, after all, never lasts.  To feel is fleeting.  What is needed beyond the seeing is the savoring.  To savor is to take in the awe and keep it - tasting the experience slowly; holding it sensually, appreciatively, and finally memorably - enjoying it, yes, in the moment, but lingering with it so that the experience lives on as a sensory echo indefinitely, imprinted.   It is to stretch out the awe by settling it into one’s very marrow.

Savoring has its roots in the kitchen - the culinary wonderland of tastes and smells.  There over an oily pan we test and correct the seasoning; we check for doneness.  And then, with the browned meat or vegetables removed, we scrape up the crispy caramelized bits left behind, stuck to the bottom of the skillet.  Those browned, flavorful bits are called “fond” and they are the concentrated residue of the process - the glory of the dish left behind.  

Perhaps that’s the gift that savoring adds to awe:  it is scraping up the flavorful bits of what has struck us as significant, as momentous, as delicious, and relishing the ongoing essence that lingers.

Awe leaves plenty of fond behind.  It is, after all, the stuff that widens our eyes and swells our soul.  It is the surge of wonderment.  But it is housed in a moment - fleeting, and then it is gone.  But it doesn’t have to be gone entirely.  It’s simply up to us to scrape it up, scoop it out, and savor as long as we are willing the flavor that lingers behind.  

That’s my new word of the year:  “savor”.  Capturing the flavor in the fond.

{While you are reading, you might enjoy my other blog.  You can find it at:

Substack.com/@taprootgarden}