Bread Pudding: A Recipe to Remember

Year of 2088 

“Daniel, you’ve barely touched your plate. We have all this food yet you haven’t even glanced at the desserts,” Mother says. She waved over Sam, one of the maids that worked at my house, and asked her to start clearing the entrees. 

“I’m not hungry,” I replied, clutching my stomach to keep the growling locked inside my empty stomach. The dining room, where these dinners were hosted, echoed the noises of unbridled rants regarding the business industry. I absolutely hated Friday dinners. Around 20 businesspersons, all dressed in suits and garnished with the most expensive and dazzling jewelry I’ve ever seen, all gather to discuss deals, partnerships, profit strategy– all concepts that my 11 year old mind cannot grasp.

“Well you have to try something Daniel,” Mother said. 

“If you only try one thing tonight, make it the pudding,” Michael, one of the businessmen sitting next to Mother, suggested. I slouched in my chair and sighed; Mother and Father only ever paid attention to me when other people were around. 

I watched as my Mother dug the gold serving spoon into the dessert and plopped it down smack in the middle of the gold plate. Raising my spoon I took a bite. Except, there was no sweetness. I took another bite; the world faded as a separate force took over me. A rain of the most fervent emotions I’ve ever felt poured down, flooding every inch of my mind; the rush of unfamiliar, yet vivid, familiar feelings pounded my head. I tasted sadness. I tasted suffering. I tasted desperation and everything that a sweet dessert should never taste like. Multiple memories of mourning over someone. A sort of nostalgia, or a yearning desire. I’ve never felt this before, although, Déjà Vu spiraled eliminating my doubts, and I reached an epiphany that I’ve lived through this state of mind before; just not in this lifetime. There was a flash in my mind, followed by the quick image of a small kitchen. The background blurred, although a figure standing in the middle appeared in meticulous detail. I saw a young, lanky boy, his brown hair swooping just below his hazel eyes. It looked as if he cried for hours and never slept as his eye bags practically fell as low as his hair. His facial expression fully captivated the exact feelings I had just experienced, as if his life had been in a permanent turmoil. I’ve never seen this kid in my life, yet, I knew exactly who he was. It was me. 

I couldn’t sleep that night. 

The following morning I begged Father to have Sam gather the ingredients used in bread pudding. Father was on his way to an international convention and gave me the approval without even acknowledging my question. 

“Here you go Daniel. Everything you need is laid on the counter and if you need anything I’d be happy to help,” Sam assured me as she ruffled my hair. Sam had always been there for me whenever I needed her. 

I dragged over a stool from the closet and positioned myself in a methodical manner; the ingredients, all labeled, lined up in order next to the glass pan and spoon I was given to work with. In my mind, I had no clue what to do first. All I sensed was an array of unfamiliar bottles and scents. I have never made bread pudding before. 

Daniel has never made bread pudding before, although the person he was decades ago made it a million times. Daniel was able to subconsciously make his way around the kitchen and didn’t request any recipe. He got started. 

• 2 cups of milk

Year of 2003 

I had asked Tanner to go to the grocery store to restock on milk. Tanner was my older brother, the one I looked up to since Dad wasn’t around. My family wasn’t always poor. I mean- we were never exactly “comfortable”, but we managed to get around. 

There I was– in the kitchen, the place that I can actually call home. We didn’t live in a safe neighborhood, and my mom always had Tanner go out and help our family stay on our feet. However Mom didn’t even have to encourage him to; Tanner enrolled in our city college and started his own small business to give my family a better life.

    When I heard the devastating words that had come through our semi-broken home phone, my head spun. I felt like fainting. 

“Hello? Is this the Watson residence?” the authoritative voice spoke. 

“Yes..this is Marty. Who is this?” I answered. 

“I’ve got bad news. Tanner Watson has been found dead at the scene of a terrible car incident on the 510 highway. I am so sorry for your loss and we’ll continue keeping in contact with his immediate family. My number is..” The phone dropped and the long, high-pitched beep followed the sound of it smacking the cold floor. Then came silence. Then fear. I’m trembling. Chills turned to a shock, banning my body from moving. Silence. Deep breath turns to a cry. My brother. The person who got me. There’s no faith anymore. 

• ½ loaf sweet bread

    That very night of Tanner’s incident I couldn’t keep myself together. Mom wasn’t even home and Grandma didn’t say a single word. Dad was unreachable and stressing him out would only hurt his condition even more. I grabbed Tanner’s coat hanging from the chair and ran out the door, slamming it behind me as tears flowed down my face; my eyes were puffy and swollen, more than they’ve ever been. 

    It was night out. Mom would never let me roam the alleys past 7. I turned into Garfield Alley, the place that me and Tanner went together whenever we needed a break from home. The two crumbling brick buildings seemed to cave in the windy path as I kneeled there in the middle. The moon was nowhere to be seen; an array of dark storm clouds captured the full moon and blocked the light. I felt trapped. 

    An old man, about 80 years old, approached me as his cane wobbled on the cobbled cement. His white beard extended about a foot, his bright blue eyes pierced through the air, and his teeth were as crooked as this alleyway.  

    “Are you lost?” he asked with a scratchy voice. I brought my gaze up to meet his eyes and shook my head. He placed his hand on my shoulder and with his other hand gave me a loaf of bread. It was the kind that Tanner would always pick up at the grocery store. 

    “What’s this?” I asked, confused as to why a homeless guy was offering me food. The man smiled and crouched down as best as he could, his back curving and knees struggling to bring him to my eye level. 

    “You know son, I may be struggling to feed myself every day and am devoid of a home, but I was once a kid like you. In fact, the very night I ran away from my house, I came to this very spot,” he explained looking up as if he was recalling tumultuous events through his life. “Just because I’m in need doesn’t mean I don’t need to help others. Everyone is in need of something. Now I just came back from the market ‘round the corner and a gut feeling told me someone would be in need of my help today.” I wiped the snot coming from my nose and stared at the bread. 

    “Thank you sir, but you should keep it. You need it more than I do.” That’s when he got up, his light body depending on only the cane to keep it from collapsing. 

    “Trust me. Promise me you’ll pass the faith and help others whenever you can, no matter what position you may be in,” he said looking straight into my eyes, still red and swollen from crying. I nodded as he turned and disappeared in the dark. That’s what Tanner would’ve wanted. 

• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 

    I had spent all afternoon in the kitchen and only my Mom was home. Standing on top of the tiled counter, I was careful to not bump my head on the low, popcorn textured ceiling. My grandma had requested me to make bread pudding that day and whatever she wants I’ll give her. She never really spoke to anyone– never engaging in conversations and choosing to sit in the same chair Dad had found on the streets years ago. The only time she ever talked was with me, and it was always in the kitchen. She taught me how to cook; the bread pudding recipe was originally her own, and she tells me she feels safe from the outside world cooking with me.

    As I poured in the milk and reached for the vanilla extract, the whole bottle tipped over as my elbow swung carelessly. It crashed all over the floor, the light brown liquid seeping through the cracks in the lopsided tile. The aroma of vanilla ate the empty void around me. Everytime I’m baking in the kitchen, my grandma and I make sure to smell it once before adding it into the mixture; it’s only when we both recognize the scent of vanilla extract that our moods illuminate. 

    I bent down, crouching as I leaned on one hand, and began to clean up this mess. Looking up, I noticed the door to my mom’s office was a crack open. I continued to absorb the extract and overheard my mom’s phone conversation with my dad. 

    “Ben, I don’t know what to do. In fact- telling the poor kid is going to be the hardest of all. Now that Tanner is gone we have no more hope,” my mom spoke as her voice trembled. “Pat fired me. No one in the family is making any money anymore, and our accounts are only plummeting. I miss you.” 

    The sweetness of the vanilla didn’t smell so sweet anymore. As I was absorbing this hopeless news, my nose was absorbing the extract. All I could smell was bitterness. Sweet turned to sour real quick and the tips of my fingers slightly touched the leftover vanilla I had yet to soak up. It was almost as if I could feel the helpless emotions I felt flowing through my body, fusing into the liquid. 

    Now whenever I open the bottle of vanilla, I try not to allow the scent to reach my nose, but the moment I catch a whiff of it, it reminds me of the day that my family fell apart. 

• 2 eggs, beaten 

    My dad found out he had lung cancer when I was around 15 years old. It was a surprise, although my dad spent the majority of his life doing work with a cigarette planted in his mouth. Tanner tried to get him to quit, but it was hopeless at the point Dad was in his life. He’s been getting treatment for awhile, but as his condition got worse, he landed himself in the hospital. 

    Dad not being around was hard for all of us, but mostly grandma. I prayed every night, hoping that everything could turn back to normal. 

    I remember sitting on his broad shoulders wondering how on earth he was able to hold me. As I swung my arms wildly watching him bring two eggs out of the fridge, he explained that cracking eggs was a skill it took years to master. Placing one egg in between his fingers, he pushed his thumb into it, cracking the sides and creating a messy hole, and he poured out the eggs as if the shell were a pitcher. 

    “And that, my friend, is my special party trick, Marty,” Dad said as I giggled. He scooped me up and ran around the house with his hands under my arms. I guess my dad was a bit irresponsible at times, since he hadn’t been watching the stove. Even a bit burnt, they were the best eggs I’ve ever tasted. 

• ⅓ cup sugar and a pinch of salt

    “Now we need the salt.” Grandma and I had been at work all day making her bread pudding. I walked over to the top shelf as I eyed two containers, both filled with fine white granules of either salt, or sugar. Grabbing both I spoke, “I don’t know which one is the salt or sugar; no one ever labels anything in this house.” I set down the two. Grandma turned around, leaving the perfectly clean mixing bowl by the stove. 

    “Sometimes, you’re not gonna know which one is which, cause honey, salt and sugar look the same,” she told me. I didn’t know where this was going. “You might not know who you can trust– looks can be deceiving. One might give you a whole plate of salt while another a plate of sugar. Everyone always has a little bit of sugar and salt in their lives.” She had a glimmer in her eye, but not a happy one. It was as if she was remembering something in her past that related to what she was telling me. 

    “So how do you know who to trust?” I asked. 

    “Be cautious. Be alert, but never be afraid to try.” She stuck one finger in one of the containers and licked it. She scrunched her nose and shook her tongue out. “Yup, that one’s definitely the salt.” I laughed as I placed labels on both. 

2088 

I finished the final touches of the bread pudding. All those moments that revised my memory as I added each ingredient still trailed the back of my mind. The life I lived before was so different from my life now. I pushed the button on the new oven my parents just bought the other day; it was the newest model released last week and of course they were the first ones to purchase it. 

After 30 minutes, I pulled it out and left it on the cooling tray. Mother just came back from work as she entered the kitchen in her suit and set her briefcase down. 

“Wow Daniel, have you been cooking?” she asked, collapsing down on the couch. I nodded and smiled. “Smells great. Also, your father’s convention got canceled, he should be heading back home. I’m going to drive and meet him at the airport, and we might go eat out with some business friends. Ask Sam to cook you something. ” My smile dropped. I glanced over at the bread pudding, reminding myself of the tragic events I had once faced. Truth is, in these two lifetimes I faced similar problems. I always had issues with being with my family. I couldn’t give this up, not right now at least, and I knew I had to find a way to get my family back together. 

“Hey Mom, I made this bread pudding today and was wondering if you and Father would want to eat together with me?” I nervously asked as I fiddled my hands. Mother looked up at me and gave Father a call. 

Later that night, we decided to eat on the coffee table in the living room instead of the dining room. Father had gotten a call from work, but the moment he picked it up to answer, Mother tilted her head in my direction, almost as if she were hinting to him to focus on me rather than work. He set it down. 

“Shall we give this pudding a try?” Father asked as he smiled for the first time in ages, revealing his shiny white teeth. I dug my spoon in. Raising the spoon, I took a bite. I didn’t taste sadness. There was no desperation embedded into the treat anymore. I tasted the sweet bread flavor, coated with the vanilla and sugar paste. I tasted the first time in years my family was all together, laughing– just the three of us. I felt the love and bond grow between us as we slowly finished the pudding bite by bite. 

Food creates memories. Friday dinners even accumulate in my mind now. It shows how important spending time with your family is. It showed my boredom and longing for attention from my parents. Now, as we sit around the coffee table, laughing and their work not even being mentioned in any conversation, this bread pudding holds an entirely new memory for me. It’s replacing, but not forgetting, the suffering and the events I faced in my old life, and now collecting the essence of everything around me at this very moment. 

Food holds memories. I might have left my old life and come back as a totally different person, with a new lifestyle with no memory of anything, but food has the capacity to hold every aspect of what happened while it witnessed key moments in my past life. Every smell, every texture, every color, and every object will work together and create a sealed package of my emotions I felt while I interacted with them, and only opened up, releasing this memory, when you put yourself back into its presence. 

Sam walked up to me and tapped my shoulder. Whipping my head around, she smiled at me; she had this glimmer in her eye. 

“Maybe before you thought your parents ignored you. You felt they didn’t care. They might have been your salt in your life,” Sam started. I gasped. “But maybe you had to try. You had to try something different– taking a different approach through baking.” She winked at me. 

“I guess they were my sugar after all.”