earliest personal memory, importance of small events, joy
A silence, infused with happiness and contentment, fills the quaint, traditional Bavarian kitchen. The paneled wooden door stands half open, allowing the warmth and sweet smells of summer to waft in. The pungent scent of freshly cut grass mingling with the fragrant bouquet of hay, wanders up my welcoming nose. The soft rays of the morning sun filter through the half drawn curtains, wrapping my small body in a blanket of coziness.
The kettle, boiling on the early morning fire that is still burning in the old wood stove, whistles quietly like a train in the distance. Beside the kettle sits a freshly brewed pot of coffee; its rich, dark aroma lingers in the warm humid air. Slices of fresh bread are being placed on the table next to a plate of creamy yellow butter. Hungry, I watch my Opa intently as he spreads his toast with butter and ‘Streichwurst’, oblivious to the fact that the same scrumptious treat has been placed in front of me. He stops for a second, glancing from me, to the toast on my plate, and then back again. I follow his eyes and rejoice with delight at the sight before me. Excited, I lift it to my lips. The flavour of mild herbs and velvety meat envelopes my tongue as my taste buds indulge in the first bite of fresh, spongy bread.
My white, feathery hair is suddenly pulled into disarray as my polka dotted cap is slipped of my head and held up into the air. I jump after the hand, trying to wrestle my hat back, but my Opa dangles it much too high for me to reach. Squirming in my seat, my arms dart after the hat. He swings it back and forth, while his other hand inches across the table towards the treasure on my plate. Right before he can seize my cherished piece of toast, I catch him with his own trick. I steal his hat. Holding the loot in my hand, I quickly grab my toast and wriggle back to the other side of the bench where he can’t reach me. Sliding back and forth on the rough surface, trying to avoid the large hands that could, at any moment, seize my toast, I move to the very end and sit on the edge, grinning. My smile mirrors in his face, and we both begin to chuckle. Eventually, loud bursts of laughter echo throughout the room, his deep jolly laugh in perfect harmony with my high-pitched giggles.
I slowly shuffle back to the center of the bench and happily munch on my toast. Only a few inches away from my salivating mouth and it’s gone! Before I can indulge in the second bite, the large hands have my toast in captivity. I scoot as close as I can and stand up on the bench beside him. I gaze down at his goofy, triumphant expression through overflowing eyes, pleading with innocence. Yet, he does not surrender. I tug playfully on his strong arm, but it does not budge. He looks contently into my eyes, takes a large bite of my toast, and smiles. I look at him once more, but as I begin to beg, he shoves the last bit of toast into his mouth and laughs warm-heartedly. Try as I might to contain myself, I can’t help but laugh as well.
We return each other’s hats while our laughter slowly fades and the pleasant silence once again fills the sunny room. Comfort and warmth seems to be radiating out of every nook of the old kitchen. As I sit here, on the wobbly wooden bench, I think how happy I am to be with my Opa. Even though my plate is empty and my hair stands on end, I am living in a moment of complete bliss.