Once upon a time, in a blue planet called Earth, there was a tiny, nose-shaped island somewhere in the Pacific. On that tiny, nose-shaped island was a city criscrossed by a river. Somewhere near that river was a house with a white roof, stone walls and a 30-year old tree which stood by its lonesome in the front yard. Somewhere inside that house, there lived a little girl.
This little girl loved to do so many things. She played her little wonky-tonky piano. She climbed the huge tree in the garden. She made an obstacle course out of old tires and string. She dug a hole in the front yard, hoping to get to Brazil. She dug another hole on another side of the yard with hopes of finding a velociraptor fossil. She made mud pies and topped them with flowers. She washed her socks near the water pump in the garden. She sang lullabies. She flew paper planes with secret messages hidden under the flaps. But above all this, there was one thing which topped the little girl's list of things to do. She absolutely loved to eat.
The little girl's father was an excellent cook. In fact, he was a wizard in the kitchen. No one else in the city criscrossed by the river, in the nose-shaped island somewhere in the Pacific, in the blue planet called Earth was as skilled in the culinary arts as the little girl's father. He made sunny-side ups with ketchup smilies and mouth-watering shepherd's pie. His fish-and-chips was a mealtime winner as well as his trademark macaroni-and-cheese. The steamed rice was always fragrant and the vegetable dumplings were crunchy. The roasted chicken was a runaway hit as much as the fresh salad. The mashed potatoes were always warm and drowning in gravy and the cheesecake and chocolate-chip cookies were sweet and soft.
But the little girl's father made one farely simple meal which his daughter absolutely loved above all the fancy meals he made - toast with butter and his special home-made jam. No one else in the city criscrossed by the river, in the nose-shaped island somewhere in the Pacific, in the blue planet called Earth made jam like this. The little girl usually had her sweet snack a couple of hours before noon, just around mid-day when she was in the middle of her front yard activities. Her father would call out her name and when he did, she would drop whatever was in her hands to rush inside the house and enjoy her snack. The toast was brown and crisp. The butter was soft and warm but the jam was the best. The sweetness was not too strong for the palate and the jam had a fruity-creamy taste to it which went absolutely well with the toast and butter. The jam and the butter were generously spread all over the toast that the filling would sometimes drip beyond the bread and onto the plate where it usually sat.
Day in and day out, the routine proceeded as such. The little girl went through her daily activities in the front yard while her father would keep an eye on her while doing his own brand of magic in the kitchen. By midday, he would call out to her for their quick snack together and she would rush in and sit beside him as she licked her fingers clean of her favorite toast, butter and jam ensemble. Day in and day out, morning till night, that was the life of the little girl and her father who lived in a house in the city criscrossed by the river nestled in a nose-shaped island somewhere in the Pacific on the blue planet called Earth.
One day, the little girl woke up as usual and walked to the front yard for her usual daytime activities. She brought out her tiny tin box filled with small, plastic soldiers smartly dressed in their red coats and fur hats. She arranged her mini army in flanks and ranks and brought out her little bugle so she could play some form of battle music for her plastic troops. She was so engrossed in her work when she realized that it was already past midday and her father had not yet called her in for their snack of toast, butter and jam. Puzzled, she ran to the kitchen and found him there, emerging flushed from the oven as he took out freshly baked loaves of bread.
"Papa," she said. "It's midday. Are we not going to have our snack?"
Her father smiled at her and answered, "I thought we ought to try something different today. I was thinking you were getting a little pudgy," he answered with a tease. "But if you're hungry," he added, "we can have the toast now."
The little girl bit her lip and thought to herself. She did not think she was as pudgy as her father hinted she was becoming but she realized she wasn't that hungry yet anyway. Besides, while building her mini version of the battle of Waterloo, she had a bright idea of constructing a make-believe town out of her dolls and other toys just a few meters away from the "battlefield." That ought to give the entire setup a more realistic feel.
"I'm not hungry," she declared. "We can have the toast later, Papa. Thank you." With that she skipped back to her front yard while her father shot a quick glance at her retreating form.
She sat down on the grass and arranged her dollhouse on one side of the garden, a few feet away from the battlefield. She made pinwheels out of plastic and paper and moved some pots of plants and flowers into her little town center. She placed her dolls in various positions and scattered small branches and twigs in a make-believe park. She made mini-skyscrapers out of matchboxes. She shook beetles from the leaves of the tree, tied up their wings and placed them on the little town center as overweight horses.
Morning sped into noontime and the little girl continued with her work, not even noticing the noonday heat pierce through her red dress. She blew into her little bugle and the mock battle proceeded. The enemies were defeated and the little town and its horse-beetles were declared safe from the invaders. All was well in the front yard.
Except, that is, for the little girl's stomach.
It was now rumbling and grumbling, as if a herd of buffaloes went on a stampede inside her tummy. She glanced up at the sky and saw that it was blue bordering on orange, indicating it must be pushing into late afternoon. She wondered where her father was and what on earth he was doing.
As if he were reading her thoughts, her father called out her name and said "Snacktime!"
She abandoned her little town and sped to the table like a bullet to have her long overdue meal. She found her father sitting on the table with the toast on a plate and she rushed to her chair.
"I thought I was never gonna have one of the--" she began to say as she climbed into her chair. She stopped midway and stared at the toast sitting on the plate on top of the table. She looked up to her father with eyes full of bewilderment and then she frowned.
Her father again read her mind perfectly. He inhaled slowly and said gently, "That's the different thing I wanted to try today."
The toast was warm and the scent of the bread with butter and jam was unmistakeably familiar. But this time, the butter and jam filling was almost invisible. In fact, it only occupied a small section of the toast, right on the center of it, like a ballerina in the middle of an otherwise empty stage.
"But I'm not pudgy," she began to protest.
"I know," her father answered. "But that's all you're gonna have today."
"Why?" the little girl asked as her eyes began to brim with tears and her stomach continued to roar in rage.
"Just eat," her father said calmly and pushed the plate towards her.
She knew better than to protest or whine. She reached out for the piece of toast and stole another glance at her father. His answer to her silent plea was "Go on, eat."
She exhaled sharply and began to nibble at the bread. It was warm and crisp like before but without the jam and the butter, it did taste a bit flat. But she was hungry and she needed to quell the revolt that was now being staged by her gastric system. She sighed and continued to chew. She was so eager to get to the center but realized she ought to save the best part - the section of the bread with the oozing chunk of butter and the sweet jam - for last. So she bit and chewed and nibbled at the toast - right, left, small chunks here, bigger chunks there. She carefully worked her way around the areas without the butter and the jam, ignoring the clamor for the sweetness and the creaminess. All the while, her father sat on his chair, watching her.
Finally all she had left was the remainder of the piece of toast with the jam and the butter on top of it. She stared at it, as if it were cherry on top of a cake. She turned to look at her father who gave her a small smile.
"Do you promise we won't have to do this again tomorrow?" she asked hopefully.
Her father looked at her with quiet gentleness. He brushed back a stray strand of hair which had fallen out of place from her ponytail and his hand finally lingered on her face.
"I can't make that promise, I'm sorry," he answered. "That's the last of my special jam."
Her eyes widened with surprise. No more of her favorite jam? No more of that special sweet concoction which was the only one of its kind in the city criscrossed by the river, in the nose-shaped island somewhere in the Pacific, in the blue planet called Earth? This cannot be happening!
"Well you can make more, can't you? You always have," she pleaded through tears which now refused to stop flowing from her eyes.
Her father shook his head slowly but he never took his eyes away from her. "I'm not making the special jam anymore."
She placed the remnant of the toast on her plate and began to cry. How was she to go through each day without her special snack of toast with butter and her father's special jam? It was what she looked forward to every morning, after a long day in the front yard with her dolls, her soldiers, her mudpies and her beetles.
The little girl felt her father's hand on her shoulder and she heard him whisper "I think you need to eat your toast now. The butter is melting."
She took another glance at her father. His eyes still had that quiet gentleness but were themselves brimming with tears. He gave her a small, quiet smile as he wiped her face. "Go on, eat it. Eat it, my child," he prodded.
Struggling with her fingers, she picked up the remnant of the toast, closed her eyes and made her first bite. Her teeth sank on the warmth of the bread, the softness of the butter, the sweetness of the jam. The creaminess was beyond what she remembered. The jam was subtle in its sweetness but it had never tasted as delicious as this before. The toast all of a sudden acquired new life with the butter and jam. As she chewed, she remembered the sound of her father's voice calling her, the waft of baked bread from the kitchen, the slurping sound she and her father made as they both licked their fingers clean after the meal, their hearty laughter as they bit into their favorite midday snack.
The toast was gone a little bit too soon. The little girl brushed the bread crumbs off her dress. Even if she was full, she felt hollow somewhere inside as if she had swallowed chunks of air which left her feeling bloated. That was it. With one bite, the last piece of toast with butter and her favorite special jam had disappeared, never to be seen or tasted again in the city criscrossed by the river, in the nose-shaped island somewhere in the Pacific, in the blue planet called Earth. The sweetness left a sting on her tongue.
She blinked back tears as she clambered off her chair. Her father watched her patiently. "Are you going back to the yard?" he asked.
She knew she ought to go back. Dusk should come in a while and it looked like it might rain. She needed to untie the beetles and allow them to crawl back to the tree. The dolls were probably getting dirtier by the minute and the little plastic soldiers were scattered all over the yard.
Instead she walked up to her father, clambered into his lap and began to cry as he enfolded her in his arms.
Rain began to fall on the white roof of the house with stone walls in the city criscrossed by the river, nestled in the nose-shaped island somewhere in the Pacific, in the blue planet called Earth.
Note:
Thanks to my friend Bannanna for introducing me to Kopiroti's Kaya toast (the progenitor of the toast-with-butter-and-jam concoction in this story). It's really great comfort food, especially at a time when the heart is overcome by what author William Young has called the Great Sadness. It also goes well with a mug of milk tea! A quick shout-out to Bananna's boyfriend Marbs whose weird/unique manner of eating Kaya toast is illustrated in this story.
