hotdogs and honeybees

I love the power food holds over us, whether it is playing with our emotions, changing our moods, or in the most basic sense, nourishing our body and soul. I love when the most trivial of tastes or smells can instantly transport you to a time in your childhood, magically creating a safe haven for your mind to drift back to those days of ease; slowly waking each memory from its lazy slumber and bringing each detail that lay dormant until that very taste to life.  The other day I was enjoying a leisurely dinner at twilight with a friend, when I had this very experience. What started as a chat over a couple of glasses of wine, comfortably turned into us ordering a large salad with honey mustard chicken to split and a bowl of gazpacho. The food was nothing to write home about, however, I was struck by a taste that has not graced my palate in quite some time. It was mustard. Not the fancy, grainy variety, but instead the neon yellow condiment for hotdogs variety. Living in Barcelona, you don’t come across this taste often, so my senses were clearly caught off guard. 

Seated across from my friend in a plaza we often frequent, surrounded by a mix of street people and tattooed free spirits I was suddenly no longer able to hear the ramblings of Spaniards conversing at the table beside me, but instead now a gaggle of girls giggling and gossiping rang in my ear. I could no longer smell the sweet leaves from the tree looming over me, but now chlorine and hotdogs captured my sense of smell. The scene was my birthday party at our local swim club that my parents had thrown for me many moons ago. It was lunchtime and there was the ubiquitous choice of burgers, hotdogs or pizza and of course fries and sweet fountain soda. I can vividly recall my mother squirting French’s mustard on my bare hotdog, and no sooner then a second later having a bee buzz loudly around my head. Being highly allergic to bees, I swung my hands in a flaring motion and unfortunately my poor, newly adorned dog took a nose dive to the concrete. Tears may or may not have followed, but I am certain that hotdog was gobbled up one way or another. Now, this birthday party no matter how great it had been has not been thought about since that hot day in August, but that bite of chicken coated in mustard grabbed me by the hand and yanked me back to a time I would happily visit over and over again. A time of simplicity, laughter, and innocence. Eating lunch by the pool with friends, family and the scorching sun, while the melody of water splashing and life guard's whistles hummed in the background. The wiff of chlorine from my still wet bathing suit and water logged hair along with the perfumed aroma of sunscreen mingled perfectly with my salty hotdog enrobed in its doughy, white bun. It was these extraneous elements that created a taste all its own and could never be recreated without that same soaking wet bathing suit, thick summer heat and scent of sunscreen dancing in the gentle breeze, but I sure can observe from a distance with a smile on my face.

As my plate was cleared and a third glass of wine was dropped I was quickly whisked back to the plaza, my friend and my full stomach. Although sad to have felt that memory leave me, I now know where I can find it again when perhaps I am in need of a pick-me-up;  yellow mustard on a hot summer's day.