There’s something about this evening that is reminiscent of my fondest childhood memories..
I grew up in a 10 guestroom bed and breakfast nestled on 340 acres of untouched land in the beautiful rolling hills of the Driftless Area, Wisconsin. This wasn’t just any ordinary bed and breakfast, though. Designed by hand from the talent of my mother’s visionary mind, this log home housed an eclectic melting pot of fine art and rural, homegrown values.
During my childhood, everyday was spent meeting new people from around the country and the world in my own home. From my Tibetan refugee babysitter from the Buddhist Dharma center a few miles down the road to the array of guests spanning in origin from professional cyclists from Sweden to Mongolian wanderers, a Californian movie producer to a shamen from a remote Amazon rain-forest; the exposure for a tiny two-year-old girl crawling under tables and through ladies’ purses plopped on the floor of the award-winning restaurant was unlike any other. Home, to me, became synonymous with cultural exchange.
Food became a means of sharing this exchange with the outside world. Every morning, my mom would wake up at six A.M to prepare breakfast from anywhere between 2-30 guests and I would follow at about 7:45 to welcome the first guests descending down the Amish wooden-build staircase from the second floor. I’d offer them coffee, with cream or sugar, and show them to their designated table. From the time I was seven or eight years old, I would attend to tables in the morning and handle the front of house while my mother concocted delicious goods from the kitchen: Parmesan-chive scrambled eggs with rosemary-roasted potatoes, orange-cinnamon french toast with a wild-Maine blueberry sauce and house-made creme, baked frittata with asparagus and whatever muffin fit her desire for that day (I always preferred her raisin-bran or blueberry-lemon). Occasionally when we would have a full house, my mom would run a buffet.. I always looked forward to the last person coming down for breakfast- which always occurred between 8:00-9:00 A.M, sharp- before I would go through the line myself.
My favorite mornings would be when I woke up early enough to catch my mom sipping coffee on the front porch. I would join her in peering out over the large garden in front of the Inn that would occasionally fog over when the temperature and humidity reached the right ratio. I loved to sit on the purple metal chair and watch hummingbirds, chipmunks and deer and spend many hours reading whatever I could get my hands on.
My first job every morning was keeping coffee cups full. Coffee was the driving force to the morning and it was imperative that I always remained ahead of the coffee guzzlers because the machine would take ~5 minutes to brew a fresh pot. I would dance around the dining room and offer fresh brew to guests, periodically heading back to the kitchen with empty plates, handing them to my brother who was usually on dish duty. It was a well-oiled machine. I would always look forward to getting a “tip” from a guest on the dining table or in the room when they left. I started saving early.
Dinnertime was always an event. Whenever the weather permitted, we would sit on the front deck and enjoy ice-cold water and an array of beautiful foods cooked by my mom. She never failed to disappoint. Evenings were spent with hours at the dinner table chatting and enjoying company. Many times we would invite guests to sit with us and enjoy their company, too. Stories shared, meals exchanged. A national and international community right at my dinner table.
Now, as I stare out at the distant Italian alps, set against the blueish-pink skyline of sunset, my heart is simultaneously full and longing. There are sounds of children laughing and playing, parents chatting and gossiping. Crickets chirp in the background and cars buzz in the distance. The air isn’t quite as sweet as I remember it, but my memories make up the difference.
