When I was a little girl my Nana lived with us. And my
mother worked full-time, not typical of women back then. Sometimes we would have a big home cooked meal after
she got home and other times just a TV Dinner. One thing though never failed,
there would always be some kind of dessert on the table before our plates were
clean. Jello, ice cream, coconut or
orange cake, pudding, oatmeal cookies and my personal favorite…. White Bread
slathered with butter and then drowned in KING syrup. It had to be KING syrup. The glass bottle with the crimson
label and lion’s face was the only BRAND to use. It poured like molasses
because it was so thick. It’s gooey
goodness can not be overstated. It was DELICIOUS. And it was a part of our family’s dinner ritual for many years. When I left
home and moved away I never had it again for quite a while. When I did attempt to find a bottle to share
with my kids, it was difficult at best, to find one. Seemed only a few places
carried it. But I was relentless in my search. I wanted my little ones to be enamored
with the lion like I was. When I finally brought KING syrup home...They smiled and pointed at the animal’s fluffy mane on the glass bottle...but when it came time to pour… they demanded I put the married woman with the
dress, Mrs. Butterworth, on the pancakes instead.
So I did, reserving KING for special occasions until
the syrup ran out. Then, I never replaced it, letting childhood memories fade
away. I am an old lady now. Joy is dispensed in experiences for me these days. Recently… I had a piece of Pita Bread in my
hands following dinner out… eating it a piece at a time. For some reason... I felt something was missing, but I couldn't put my finger on what it was? Then I happened to notice a bottle of syrup sitting on the table,
nestled between the salt and pepper shakers. I became possessed. The
little girl inside me came alive, bubbling to the surface. I grabbed the bottle pouring some sugary flavor over this Mediterranean staple, I now placed on the dinner plate. Closing my eyes, I headed back to that yellow kitchen table of my youth. My mom was there. My NANA. My father and my baby brother. This wasn’t KING SYRUP, but I pretended it was. It tasted scrumptious. And for just a moment, I was 4 years old again, savoring the goodness of such
SWEET memories, transported back in time to a place called HOME.
You can READ me. I am an open book. Just endless pages of musing. And lots of photographs too. They are about life's experiences.