The Sweet Taste of Memories

I remember being at Grandad’s funeral and my mom telling a story of the sounds of Grandad. Grandad was a man of measured words. He often was quiet, but when he spoke everyone listened because it was bound to be a well-thought out response that would leave the rest of us thinking. But Mom wasn’t talking about his words, she was talking about the sounds of his hands in the kitchen.

Grandad worked magic in the kitchen, at least as far as my memory of him goes. He piddled and fussed about. He was a master at baking; making the best breads and pies – ones I still crave. Mom shared the story of how the sound of a clap of hands accompanied by a poof of flour, could bring him back to her in an instant.

I remember nodding as she told that story, thinking of how many times I’d seen Grandad do just that. He’d mumble something about things being “mighty fine” under his breath and move on to the next task.

While I could picture those moments as she talked about them, I hadn’t, at that point, ever experienced the power of one of my senses to elicit a memory that was connected to loss.

Sure I’d had memories pop up tied to songs – cue school dances, memories of early boyfriends, or silly moments with girlfriends. I’d had memories pop up tied to the taste of something that would take me back to a beach trip or a food I’d eaten before getting sick. I can instantly be transported back to high school mall trips by the smell of Abercrombie & Fitch.

Since Rylie died, however, memories triggered by one of my senses seem so much more powerful. Perhaps it’s the loss that heightens the memory and that’s what Mom was conveying in her story of Grandad’s kitchen claps.

Usually my memories of Rylie are triggered by a sound or sight. Taste is more rare for me, but it happened recently and bam!

I’m lucky to work with some really fantastic humans that care deeply about each other. In my time with them, I’ve been able to share lots of stories of Rylie particularly those around her cooking.

As we planned a meal for a Community Breakfast sponsored by Rylie’s ARK, I told some stories of Rylie in the kitchen. While she made many amazing treats and meals, one of the last things I remember her cooking was a chocolate cupcake.

We often watched cooking shows like Chopped as a family, but I believe Rylie had discovered the Kids Baking Championship and Cupcake Wars on Food Network shortly before the cupcake creation was born.

I vaguely remember being annoyed when she asked, or more accurately, told me she was going to make a fun chocolate cupcake… from scratch. Mind you, I’d never baked a successful cupcake in my life, much less one from scratch. I was pretty sure we’d be in for a lot of batter and a giant mess, but also a sunken cupcake.

I’m also pretty sure that I made myself as scarce as possible. I have a tendency to swoop in and get involved when I shouldn’t, especially in the kitchen. I clean up things before they’re done being used. I question the choices being made, although I’m the least qualified person to do so. I also just generally get in the way.

In this instance though, I knew my need for control in what seemed to be a very fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants situation would cause more havoc. So I ran and hid behind my work. Grading or planning, I’m sure.

While in hindsight, I wish I’d stayed more present and witnessed Rylie’s magic in the kitchen, I know at the moment I made the right choice. Had I stuck around, she probably would have gotten fed up with my intervening and stomped off leaving a half created cupcake in her wake.

As it was, I was summoned when the final product was ready. She’d concocted a chocolate cupcake with a chocolate frosting and topped it with a potato chip dipped in dark chocolate. I know Rylie had a much more exquisite description of her cupcake, but that’s the gist of it. She loved playing with flavors and textures. She loved testing our capacity to reframe an ingredient.

I remember the pride on her face as she presented the plate of cupcakes for my perusal. She immediately launched into an explanation that the frosting didn’t turn out quite how she wanted it to. If I recall correctly, the evening was quite warm and knowing me I hadn’t turned on the air conditioning which means baking, in general, and frosting specifically would be a challenge.

Regardless, she presented a beautiful array of cupcakes, none of them sunken, topped with a fluffy chocolate frosting and dipped potato chips. While I’m not a cupcake girl myself, the combination of salty and sweet was quite decadent.

I shared this story with Chef Paul and he recognized a kindred spirit in Rylie, a girl he never even met. His eyes lit up as he began scheming ways to integrate her ideas into a breakfast special; Crunchy Nutella Stuffed French Toast was born.

I figured it would be delicious. I mean how could one go wrong with the combination of French Toast and Nutella. When I inquired about the crunchy part, his response was that it was Rylie inspired – crumbled potato chips placed on the batter of one side of the toast.

While my taste buds were tingling in anticipation, I wasn’t prepared for my reaction – not even a little bit. I’d been told by several people that it was delicious reminding them somewhat of a donut so I was prepared to be amazed, but I wasn’t prepared for the flashbacks or the tears.

Chef Paul handed me a half of a French Toast to taste. Tanner and I indulged together. Delicious wasn’t the word for it. Decadent is closer. But for me it was even more. It transported me. As Tanner and I shared bites of it, I found myself saying, “This reminds me 100% of Rylie.” Tanner nodded in agreement, both of us taken aback by the comment a bit.

It’s not unusual for us to talk about food and Rylie, but it’s usually in the context of if Rylie would have liked or not liked it. It’s not directly tied to reminding us of her, so I think that took both of us by surprise.

As I savored the bites of french toast, I was taken right back into our kitchen. I could see her face, and the mess she’d left behind. I could see the pride as she presented a plate full of scratch-made cupcakes. I could see the twinkle of her eye, with her hair piled high on her head leaning over to be part of the picture I insisted on taking.

While some of that was because I’d found that exact picture earlier in the week as a way to entice people to join us for breakfast, I know it was more the result of magic that Paul worked.

I was touched by Paul’s desire to create a meal that would weave in bits and pieces of Rylie’s story. I wasn’t surprised that he’d used the cupcake as inspiration, he’d used a different story the year before, but I was surprised by the result. He created a combination that was uniquely Rylie. He gave me the gift of feeling her presence so strongly in that moment – connected by taste buds and memories.

I finished my bites and felt compelled to go tell him how touched I was, just how delicious it was and how 100% Rylie it was, regardless of how busy the kitchen was at that point. I intended to just say those words, but what happened was quite different.

Instead, I walked behind the line and found myself asking if I could give him a hug. I told him that the french toast was perfect; perfectly Rylie. Suddenly, I found myself standing there with tears streaming down my face.

While we work closely together sharing lots of stories and emotions, tears aren’t my specialty. I’m not afraid to share the hard stuff. To enter into conversations that are heart-wrenching, but rarely do I let my true emotions show. I tend to keep them carefully guarded playing tour guide instead – helping others navigate the hard and heart-wrenching.

Yet, here I was, brought to tears, visible tears and sniffles by the combination of chocolate / hazelnut and potato chips.

Now I understand Mom’s story of the clap of hands and transporting her into Grandad’s kitchen. Paul’s gift surpassed that of chef. It was a gift of connection and a moment to relive an experience that was hidden in the recesses of my brain, only to truly be brought out by my sense of taste. Thank you, Chef Paul, for that moment both in memory and in support as you hugged me and let me tear up in your kitchen.