This morning, at Chaps, one of my family's favorite places for Sunday brunch, I noticed a young family sitting at the table beside us. Three young boys and their parents.

The mother and father had their hands full with the two younger children, one just a lap baby. But the oldest boy, no more than five years old, was no bother at all. As we ate and sipped our coffee and talked over our own food, I kept stealing glances over to the other table. As good as my plate of eggs and bacon was, watching him was more delicious.

The boy had a big plate of the house specialty, Blueberry muffin French toast, in front of him. Each time he put a bite, smothered in syrup, in his mouth, he would wiggle a little, reacting to the sheer pleasure of it. I found myself smiling at his involuntary reaction, waiting for his next bite. When he turned his attention to the thick slices of bacon, I settled back with my mug of coffee and watched the show. 

Lost in a daydream, the boy placed the the end of one slice of bacon in his mouth and proceeded to chew on it the way a farmer might chew on a stalk of wheat. Bit by bit the bacon disappeared as he stared dreamily out the window, his hands slack at his sides and his legs wrapped around the legs of his chair. When one piece was finished, he repeated the process with another.

Finally, the little brothers were done with their breakfasts and the parents had taken one last sip of coffee and were bundling up everyone to go home.

The little boy who had needed no help polishing off a platter of food, stood up and slipped his arms into the sleeves of his coat. And then, as he turned to leave, he noticed a piece of his French toast in his chair where it had fallen from his lap. He stared at it for a few minutes and then looked over at his mother and his father. They had turned away and were already moving toward the door. He stood perfectly still another minute, as I watched, and then reached out, picked up the bit of fallen bread and popped it in his mouth. Just as he did so he looked over and caught my eye. I winked over the rim of my coffee cup. He smiled at me and then skipped off to join the rest of his family.

That, I thought to myself, is how each of us should appreciate a meal that was prepared and put before us. With gratitude and pleasure. Savored from start to finish. Especially that last delicious bite.

 

Cheryl-Anne Millsap is a freelance writer based in Spokane, Washington. In addition to her Home Planet , Treasure Hunting and  CAMera: Travel and Photo blogs, her essays can be heard on Spokane Public Radio and on public radio stations across the country. She is the author of “Home Planet: A Life in Four Seasons” and can be reached at catmillsap@gmail.com

Oh, to be able to read others’ thoughts

     I walked down to the card shop and joined the other last-minute shoppers standing in front of the racks of Valentine’s Day cards. Obviously, I wasn’t the only one pushing the deadline.

     The woman beside me had a stack of cards in her hand. I could tell she went for the more expensive valentines, the big ones with extra pages and fancy trim.

     Finally, she must have decided she’d seen enough because she stopped looking for more and concentrated on what she was holding. One by one she looked closely at each card. After she’d been through them all, she did it all over again. Finally, she pulled one card – the perfect love letter? – out of the stack and set the rest down without bothering to put them back.

     Watching her walk over to the counter, I wished for one of those balloons that people in cartoons have over their heads that let you see what they are thinking.

     Had she discovered, in the hundreds of flowery verses and photographs of kittens and puppies and drawings of red, red roses, a valentine that said exactly what she wanted to express? Was it for someone special? A boyfriend she hoped would turn into a husband or a husband she wished would act more like a boyfriend? Was it for a child, or co-worker or friend? A secret lover?

I would never know. Waving to the girl behind the counter, the woman left with her purchase.

I’ve been going over some old Valentine columns and decided to post a few in the weeks leading up to Valentine’s Day. After all, some things bear repeating.

CAM

Home Planet: Words much sweeter than gifts

I love you. There. Now was that so hard? I just put into writing the three little words that each of us needs to say and hear, and it didn’t cost me a thing.

I didn’t have to buy a card, or a flower or a bundle of balloons. No candy or jewelry. No roses or perfume or expensive meals. No lingerie, no chocolate, no poetry or gifts.

Like every other holiday or pseudo holiday, we’ve invented, Valentine’s Day has become an orgy of hollow sentiment and blatant consumerism. Enough is never enough.

Thinking of giving her a single rose? Try a dozen long-stemmed beauties if you want to really win her heart.

A little taste of chocolate? Cheapskate. Buy the big box to impress your true love.

Bigger diamonds, more gold and silver and the most expensive wine.

Real love, the message seems to be, ought to take a bite out of your wallet, not your heart.

And every year we seem to buy more but we manage to say less.