The Olive Branch

When I stepped outside, the cold air took my breath away. February is by far the worst month of the year, and the cold tears through my body.

I walked to the bus stop and began pacing, trying in vain to keep my feet warm. 

Every morning, the distant sound of an engine announces the arrival of the bus.It is only when the driver reaches the top and releases the accelerator that the sound is replaced by its image. Thank goodness I did not miss it. Standing out here for 30 more minutes would be a nightmare.

After two buses and a short train ride, I arrive at work. The next hurdle is fighting the barrage of people clamouring to get into the warmth of the building.

As always, Nelson is cheerfully greeting everyone as they grunt past.

“Good morning Nichole. How was your weekend?” 

“It was good, thanks. I hibernated all weekend and watched cooking shows. Nigella Lawson is by far my favourite.”

“I agree, hands down. I could watch her all day long. Have a good one, Nichole.”

I managed to slide into the crowded elevator as it made its way up to the 15th floor. Even more than the freezing weather, this is by far the worst part of my entire commute. So many people crammed together, not knowing where to rest their gaze. All breathing heavy from their rushing. The air stank with the pungent odours of fast food, coffee, and cigarettes.

The elevator stopped and I squeezed through the crowd. A massive sigh escaped me as I passed the elevator’s threshold. 

My office sat at the end of the hall, inviting me with the promise of solitude and the scent of fresh bread. I opened the door in anticipation. Bingo! She came through again.

Louisa, our weekend office cleaner, always brought me a fresh loaf of bread on Monday mornings. I am not sure what time she finishes her shift, but the loaf is always still warm when I arrive.

There was something different this time though. Next to the bread was a beautiful jar filled with homemade apricot ginger jam.

“Oh Louisa, you are a rock star”, I declared out loud. 

Quickly locking my door, I set a timer for 15 minutes, and revelled in the simple pleasure of a slice of homemade bread.

The rest of the morning seemed to pass at a snail’s pace. I managed to empty my ‘inbox’ and touch base with my project coordinator, both considerable victories. All while resisting the temptation to dive back into the bread.

As per my lunchtime tradition, I scurried across the street to walk around the mall. I ate while looking in the windows and stopped at the tea shop to replenish my favourite evening blend.

Back at the office, I stripped off the never ending layers of winter clothes. God, I hate this time of year. Everything just takes so much more effort.

A sharp ringing pierced my thoughts. The phone startled me. 

“Good afternoon. Nichole Murray speaking.”

“Hi Nichole, this is Mark from Barry’s office. He asked me to call to let you know that he needs to postpone the meeting until next Friday.”

“No problem, I will change it in my calendar.”

This was actually bad. Our office recently instituted a four day work week. Most people, echoing everybody’s favourite orange tabby cat, hate Mondays and choose to work Tuesday to Friday.

I actually like working on a Monday. Not only is the office nearly empty, but Monday is the only day that Louisa delivers her heavenly loaf. I guess someone else will enjoy Monday’s heavenly loaf.

The afternoon went a bit faster than the morning and I managed to make a good dent in this week’s to-do list. I may even be able to leave a few minutes early.

Getting home at the end of the day is always a little less harried and congested. My connections went smoothly and it only took 50 minutes, door to door.

The smell of eucalyptus and rosemary washed over me as I entered my apartment. It always helped me kickstart relaxation mode.

I dropped my purse and keys on the kitchen table and looked through my mail. Molly took her time coming to greet me. She yawned and stretched before showing up at my feet. I picked her up and let her wrap herself around my shoulders. I could hear and feel her purring along the back of my neck.

Getting mail these days seems so boring. Most bills are paid online and no one actually mails letters anymore. The only actual pieces of mail I get are flyers and ads. Flipping through physical mail is more of a ritual than anything else.

However, there was a standout piece. A large brown envelope labelled DNA Today.

Oh man, I totally forgot about that. Last month I decided to submit my DNA to learn about my heritage. I, like most North Americans, am probably a mix of a bit of everything. A few people at work did it, so I thought, what the hell, and hopped on the bandwagon. 

I opened the envelope slowly, like I was on a game show. The cover of the small coil bound book was a pure white background emblazoned with the company’s minimalistic logo. Slowly opening the package, past the first few pages of technical and legal jargon, I found what I was looking for: the pie charts.

“So, who am I?” I said with a bit of giggle.

The pie chart actually surprised me. Instead of a rainbow of different colours, the entire circle was dominated by a lime green. Looking at the legend, I found who I was: 95% Italian.

Seriously? I know I like spaghetti, but that is a little on the nose. 

That certainly did not jive with my childhood. Our family was all about British traditions, especially at Christmas. Trifle, treacle, and tea. We never did anything typically ‘Italian’. I certainly never heard about any Italian branches hanging off our family tree. It was so out there that I briefly considered that it was a mix up. Nonetheless, I think I will have some pasta to celebrate my new found heritage.

Even with my newfound ancestry, my evening and sleep looked like a carbon copy of the night before. Nothing earth shattering.

I got to work and was finishing up loose ends from the day before when Susan knocked on my door.

“Want some company for lunch?” Susan asked.

“Sure. We can talk about the DNA info I got in the mail.” I said. Susan and I were pretty close, as far as work-friends went, and I enjoyed our time together.

“It came? What did it say?”

“Oh not so fast, let’s discuss it at lunch. It’s quite interesting.” I loved how excited Susan got about this kind of thing. Almost as much as I loved keeping her hanging.

She picked me up at my office at 12:00 on the dot. As soon as she opened the door, she started pelting me with questions. But, I held firm, and we got to the mall in relative silence. The topic was hanging over our heads. She was trying to be patient, but was going to burst.

Sitting down at the tea shop, we barely started our danishes before I blurted out “I am Italian.”

“What the hell? Italian? Not all Italian. Who is all Italian? Are you like 5%? Your parents are more British than I could imagine. They even still had strong accents.”

“Nope. I am bone fide Italian - 95%. It might as well be 100%”. A mix of emotions came over her face. She was shocked, confused, sceptical, before settling on a mix of all three.

“I’m not kidding. I’ll bring the results tomorrow so you can see for yourself.”

When I got back to the office, I was greeted with yet another cancellation from Barry. His office always does this, so I always write his meetings in pencil.  

So now I will take Friday off and work Monday. I hoped this was the last change.

I spent the rest of the week in a trance. Aside from dropping off the DNA results to Susan, nothing really interesting happened. 

Before I knew it. Monday had circled back around. I finally understand what my parents always said about time flying. As I get older, it really does feel like it’s going faster. I wish they were here to see me at my new job - I think they would be proud.

My commute went smoothly and I arrived at the office in record time. It was an uncharacteristically sunny day. My pace quickened so I could get to my office as fast as possible. Fresh bread awaits.

I opened the door, opening myself to be embraced in the inviting smell of fresh bread. But... nothing. No aroma, nothing. How could that be? Where was Louisa? Maybe she didn’t work last night. Did she forget? It really put a damper on my day. There is always next week.

Three weeks passed without a word, or loaf, from Louisa. I don’t want to be nosy, but I am very tempted to ask around.

A knock at my door pulled me away from my thoughts of Louisa. Judy, the floor’s receptionist, stood at the door and told me a courier was asking for me to sign for a parcel.

I collected the mystery package and hurried back to my office. I didn’t order anything, but my name and office address were displayed on top of the box. 

Opening the box, the first thing I noticed was a letter from a law firm in the city. It explained that Louisa Giordano had died and left the contents of this box to me.

I sat down and tried to digest the information. She died? I didn’t even know she was sick. Was it an accident? She went to the trouble of willing me something, but why? It’s not like we were close, I didn’t even know her last name.

Looking in the box, I saw a lovely envelope with my name written in the most beautiful script. 

Dear Nichole;

I am so sorry I will not be able to bring you bread anymore. It brought me such joy and filled my heart. 

Even though I am gone, I will remain with you just as I have been since you were born.

I wanted to tell you about me for so many years, but never had the courage. I could not bear the idea of you being angry. Please just know that I wanted you to have a better life. I knew that the Murray’s could give that to you. 

I wish that I had more to give you than just what’s in this box. I do not have much, but these are my most prized possessions and were handed down over four generations. They have been used to cook family meals through wars, depressions, celebrations and mourning. All hand carved from the olive trees on the family property in southern Italy.

Please use them to continue the tradition of. Food is life, love, and connection. 

Love

Mamma

I sat for what seemed forever, eventually unwrapping the contents. On my desk sat the most stunning wooden spoons I have ever seen. Picking one up sent a shiver down my spine. Turning them over, saw the remnants of a name carved in the handle … Giordano. Although worn, it was unmistakable. The years of use were obvious, but so was the incredible strength of the wood used in their creation. They are ready and able to serve generations to come.