With One Bite...

Vivid memories can be triggered by so many things, can't they?  A random thought, a conversation with a family member or a good friend.  Or, sometimes, they can be triggered by the senses, like a piece of music or a long forgotten fragrance or aroma.  Or, perhaps, a familiar sight not seen in many years.

For me, though, my mind zoomed back decades not by any of these stimuli, but by my taste buds.  With one bite, actually. We were out in San Diego visiting Alex, Katie and baby Owen when one morning I found myself driving Katie to a doctor's appointment.  Katie had broken her ankle some weeks before and couldn't drive and I was happy to take on the job.  When dropping her off, she suggested I might kill some time at a Jewish deli a few blocks down the street -- a place called D.Z. Akin's.  Excellent idea, I thought.

I entered the mostly empty restaurant and sat in a booth beginning to peruse the menu.  Frankly, I was expecting to order a bagel and lox.  I mean, how can you not do that at a Jewish deli at breakfast time?  But, as I gazed at the menu, I could not stop staring at one item: the potato knish.  For those of you not familiar with this Eastern European culinary tidbit, imagine a filo dough stuffed with a seasoned mashed potato that's been baked to a crispy, hot, melt-in-your-mouth definition of comfort food.  I knew I had to order this notwithstanding the fact that I hadn't tasted one in about sixty-five years, and I'll tell you why.

When I was a child, we lived in White Plains, New York, a Westchester suburb of New York City.  Back then, my grandfather -- my father's father -- lived in a home for the aged in Brooklyn along the boardwalk at Coney Island.  From time to time, we would get in the car and drive to Brooklyn to visit grandpa.  I have to admit these visits were not my favorite outings.  First, the road trips were long and boring.  More importantly, while grandpa was most definitely a sweet man, communications with him were most difficult.  He spoke very little English; Yiddish was his language of choice.  Plus back then I was hopelessly shy and any effort at conversation by me with any adult was a challenge seldom overcome.  The seemingly endless conversations between my father and grandpa were entirely in Yiddish which I understood as much as the squawking of the birds outside on the boardwalk.  So -- I would sit there numbly squished between my father and my grandpa listening to words I did not understand, staring at old people who in my youthfulness all seemed like they were four hundred years old, wishing only for my exit visa.

At some point, my father would arise and declare the visit to be over and offered to go for a walk along the boardwalk.  Freedom!!  Getting out into the warming sun, feeling the sea breeze, watching the swooping seagulls, and watching other families enjoy the same panorama was hugely rewarding and more than made up for the almost claustrophobic-like feelings I had experienced earlier being trapped among the ancient beings where grandpa lived.  But, the best was yet to come.

As we strolled up the boardwalk, we would always stop at a small eatery that offered, among other treats, knishes of all stripes.  I only remember the one stuffed with kasha, which is like a buckwheat or barley filling.  And,  of course, the potato, my favorite.  After experiencing the high of the boardwalk stroll, the potato knish brought it all home, so to speak.  It finished the outing on a perfect note.

So, when the waitress brought my knish to my table in San Diego, I could only stare at it for a few moments and smile.  This was not just a snack.  For me, I was staring at history coming to life.  And then I took a bite.  As I bit through the crunch of the covering dough and sank my teeth into the savory warmth of the seasoned potatoes, I closed my eyes and allowed myself to travel back through time, through all those decades back to Brooklyn, back to those moments of happiness when the sun and sea air surrounded me and gave me a taste I will never forget.  All with one bite.