A Mundane

Of course, it was mandatory, but that three syllable word wasn’t part of my vocabulary during those early years

I merely knew it was what everyone did on Sunday mornings. Our family went to Church, and then we went to the bakery.

I recall it was almost a procession as most, if not quite all of the the families, in the neighborhood left their tenement homes and walked the two blocks to the vast cathedral on 61st Street. The nine a,.m. service was the Children’s Mass and attendance was obligatory for all the students of the parochial school.

To my knowledge there was no requirement for attendance at the local family owned bakery immediately after Mass. However, it was also part of the Sunday ritual. Because the small shop had sparse standing room, we routinely encountered neighbors as we queued up waiting for our turn at the counter.

And we always bought crumb buns. For an unknown reason, that delicacy was only enjoyed on Sunday, and became a vital part of my childhood memories.

In 1982 I published an article eulogizing my love of the humble crumb bun. That was quite a while ago, and I thought I was the only one who remembered the succulent treat until this Christmas.

I am quite far away from the “old neighborhood” now recalled only with nostalgia. I live in a small town in Michigan and while there are excellent bakeries, none have familiar faces waiting to be served.

It has been a strange year, 2020, but history will record that better than I. Seemingly everything has moved slightly off kilter and when the Christmas season approached, gift giving became complicated. Our needs, wants and wishes had changed. Many of us were in quarantine or lockdown; travel was not recommended, and online shopping not quite as stimulating as in a festive crowded mall.

I ordered online, because I had little choice. The Fabulous Four have wandered far and wide, and there was no possibility of spending any holiday time together. I wondered if any of them remembered the days we had shared before they marched to maturity. Then I realized their worlds had also become complicated and most likely, yesterdays were not remembered.

On Christmas Eve, a package was delivered to my quarantined apartment. When I opened the small box, I found a crumb cake wrapped in bakery paper, exactly like the one my parents brought home on Sunday mornings after the Children’s Mass.

And I knew if I had held those memories in my heart, others also, held different ones intact.

And the mundane crumb cake resurrected not just a culinary treat, but recalled love that embraced another fleeting time of life.