As I’ve mentioned many times before I would spend time in Canada every summer. Place where we stayed was run by a wonderful family. Every family member was part of the business and had specific duties for their guests.
My favorite was Emma. She was the matriarch and her duty was food. She baked bread every day. All fruits and vegetables came from her garden. All meat came from her farm animals. Eggs, milk and butter came from her animals as well.
I have, in the past and continue to be critical of my mother’s cooking. Though my sister disagrees with me; I insist that my mother was and probably still is a terrible cook. My time in Canada made me absolutely fall in love with Emma’s culinary touch. Everything was always good.
One morning I announced that I was going to travel through the woods and visit a lake a couple miles away. Emma kindly packed me a lunch. I knew where I was going so I wasn’t going to be lost, but she knew that I wouldn’t return until late afternoon.
I arrived at the lake around Noon, and the walk there had made me hungry. I was looking forward to having lunch during my entire walk. I ceremoniously opened the bag and removed the foil wrapped sandwiches. The bread was beautiful and its scent kissed my nose as the sandwich rose to my lips.
My first bite sent a strange feeling to my brain. This was something I never had before. It wasn’t particularly good or bad, just foreign to my American palate. Before risking a second bite I paused to open the bread. Cucumbers? A cucumber sandwich? What the hell is this? Who feeds a cucumber sandwich to a kid not of British herritage?
I plowed on, and found I actually enjoyed them by the time I got to the second sandwich. Oddly that was the last time I ever had one, but this memory has me wanting to try one again.