That Would Be Me (dot net)

My mother had several things that she considered treats, things that she parceled out to us as if they were diamonds. Lox was one. If you are unaware of this rare gem, it’s sort of a marriage between smoked salmon and salmon sushi. Good lox, the best lox, melts on your tongue like sweet, smoky butter and at that time was only available in good Jewish delicatessens in New York or Newark. (Now you can get a fair quality lox at Costco, for goodness’ sake. Times change.) Mom rarely made the trip into the city from our small village in northern New Jersey, but when she did, she always bought some lox, usually a pound. She’d bring it home, pull one slice from the block, cut it into small, bite-sized pieces and give each of us one piece on a cracker. The rest would go in the freezer for special occasions.

One afternoon a friend was visiting and mom pulled out the lox and some crackers, cut a small slice, put it on a cracker and offered it to her friend, who was skeptical, but tried it.

“Oh, my God, what is this?”

She liked it. So much so that she went through the entire pound as they sat there in the kitchen chatting. Mom watched in horror, not willing to be so impolite as to take it away or tell her how much it cost or how difficult it was to get. Her only solace was the thought of the woman going into a deli to buy some and seeing the price of it and turning pale. Thinking of that moment usually made mom chuckle.

Another of her treats, also purchased in delis, was halva. Halva, however, was just puzzling. It is a confection made from sesame seeds and always tasted to me like sweet sawdust. Some halva was plain, some was swirled with chocolate, some had pistachios in it. It all tasted like sawdust. But mom loved it and whenever she found it, would buy some and cut small pieces for each of us. She considered it such a treat, was so delighted by it, that I would never dream of turning it down and she gave us each such a small piece that I was always able to force it down without much of a grimace.

Many years later, after my mother died, I was having dinner with a friend in a deli in Los Angeles. In the display case by the register they had halva for sale. I told my friend how much my mother had like it and bought a piece for each of us. It still tasted like sweet sawdust, but I savored every crumb.

“Yuck,” my friend said. “How can you eat this?”

He was only eating halva. I was eating a memory.

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Geoff Hoff is co-author of the best selling satirical novel Weeping Willow: Welcome to River Bend