Never Was A Cornflake Girl

Fresh from a conversation in which my co-worker said the magical words, "Of course, this annoys the chinchilla," I sit at my desk and Daria calls. It's serious.

Daria: I'm making a chicken salad sandwich.
Tata: What kind of bread?
Daria: Twelve grain.
Tata: Toasted?
Daria: Golden brown and crisp.
Tata: The chicken salad: does it have capers?
Daria: It could. I possess capers at all times.
Tata: Foliage?
Daria: Celery. I'm out of lettuce so I might have to use arugula.
Tata: I covet your sandwich. It cries out to me!
Daria: You live vicariously through me. And the sandwich.
Tata: Remember the time Daddy went to San Francisco and brought home a loaf of sourdough bread?
Daria: (shocked) Remember? That loaf of bread has spoiled me for all other sourdough bread.
Tata: He cut slices, toasted them and made us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. What, were we eight and nine, maybe?
Daria: I take a bite now and say, "Nope, nope, I'm done with this." It's not the same. Oh no!
Tata: What?
Daria: I nearly dropped the sandwich in the sink.
Tata: Don't move! I might be able to drive to Flemington in time to save it!
Daria: I didn't drop it. You might drive to Flemington and watch me eat another.

A lot of our childhood memories involve bread or food of some kind. One of my favorite was one of those little things you might not notice or if you did you might forget it. It was summer, afternoon and the weather was stormy. Dad and I were home alone, so I was ten years or less. He made garlic bread and poured us glasses of red wine. We sat on the concrete stoop with our toes inches from the line where rain dripped. We nibbled crusty garlic bread and sipped buttery red wine. I have no recollection of what we might have talked about but that doesn't matter, does it?

Suddenly it's a loaded question. Tomato soup and portents. A salad of baby greens and the verdant scent of rain you never forget. What's for lunch?