I don’t need a lot, I could live without a cell phone or a computer…I’m not selfish or greedy but I COULD NOT GIVE UP MY MORNING CUP OF COFFEE. It’s that first sip, the aroma, the right size mug touching my lips. I need fat-free half and half in it to make it creamy white and one package of sugar (I’ve recently stopped all fake stuff) natural brown or white. The coffee needs to be strong and I enjoy sipping it every single morning. It never gets old.
Yellow, sweet custard with a crispy, burnt sugar topping. The custard is so silky
on your tongue and inside your mouth. Taste buds awaken with delight. The top layer of
carmelized sugar is delicately crunchy. It’s a dessert for something special, a birthday, an anniversary, a celebration. I don’t make these, I must admit, so for me, it’s a treat at a restaurant to indulge in a dessert fantasy, taking tiny bites with a shining, silver spoon.
Just seeing this dessert listed on a menu makes me drool with excitement. The crispy glazed sugar-burned topping, the warm, sweet yellow custard that lies beneath the surface. Decadence in every tiny spoonful, today’s choice is brought to you by my taste buds: Creme Brulee.
The scent of Nivea cream brings back immediate memories of my young mother dipping her delicate fingers in the beautiful blue jar of white, fluffy cream. She would dab it on her face, while I, a young girl, looked on. My mom looked like a movie star to me as she blended the sweet-smelling cream on her cheeks and forehead and smiling face. The beautiful blue jar alone looked pretty and special and the lotion smelled like almonds and ocean and fresh air. It felt rich and luxurious, like heavy cream and velvet blended together. I grew up calling it Ni-vey-ah and of course, thought that was the name of it. It wasn’t until I saw a television commercial years ago that I realized it was pronounced Niv-ee-a.
I didn’t know, growing up, that my parents had European accents and that my sister and I were brought up with European manners, which was a big deal to our parents and apparently different from our American friends. We also repeated things that we heard from our parents as our friends giggled mercilessly; we didn’t know any other way. To this day I still mispronounce some words to the merriment of my own children who, of course, know everything better and correct me right away.
When I smell a man’s cologne (or shaving lotion as my dad called it), I think of my father, when he was alive, picking an after shave cologne from his collection of 13 different bottles that stood on a shelf like soldiers. Sometimes, he put on so much we said he smelled like a “perfume factory” which didn’t bother him one tiny bit. He was proud of his distinct, and different scents from all over the world. Even though he has been dead ten years, I still miss the smell of his cologne. It’s like the world is only one dimensional now, the scent of smell forgotten. Sometimes I will dab on an old cologne of my father’s on my wrists but it doesn’t smell the same. That smell, like everything else that made him my dad, was lost and buried years ago.