The Taste of Leaving
In the middle of the grocery store, where the baking aisle meets the coffee shop, something familiar greets me: the scent of roasty chicory. The jar of coffee grounds is misplaced; an exhausted stock clerk’s workaround to the full coffee aisle.
Ever since Grandma passed, grocery shopping has become something of a minefield. It’s a hostile environment where I’m on constant alert. The fluorescent lights are harsh, intrusive even, and the white walls feel like they’re conspiring against me. I freeze, caught off guard, as I pass by the baking aisle, a yellow tag winking at me under the buzzing light. “Look for the chicory, kiddo,” Grandma would say, sipping from her favorite mug. “Morning coffee wakes you up, but this is what you want in the evening, when you still have stories to tell.”
My grandma didn’t pass down recipes. She never measured anything. The few times I tried to jot down anything for her famous cornbread, she’d swat my hand away. “You can’t watch the paper and the pot at the same time, honey,” she’d say. “When it looks like it’s been cooking all day, and the whole damn kitchen smells like fall, that’s when it’s done.”
I clutch my chest in the grocery store of all places, Aisle 4, and feel a wave of panic wash over me. What if I can’t recreate this recipe? What if I’m not a good enough cook to properly honor her memory? What if I just forget it all and her favorite dish disappears with me?
A mum walks by with two kids, one tugging on her sleeve while the other stares longingly at a display of juice boxes. I want to stop her, tell her to make them watch, let them in on it all. Show them how to really make something that tastes like stories.
I shake the thought away and reach for the bag of chicory coffee grounds. I slide it into my basket next to the green onions and eggs.
On the walk back home, I clutch the paper bag of coffee grounds to my chest against the cool night breeze. I follow the directions Grandma told me in my head as I slide the grounds into the kettle. I forgo measuring like she did, and before long, the familiar scent of roasty coffee fills up the kitchen.