There’s nothing particularly special about the lunches we pack for our family hikes. But today, the kids recited our hiking menu back to me. I felt that I may not know much about the world or the future, but we know these lines together:
“Peanut butter and jelly or salami sandwiches.
Carrots, cookies, and apples.
Black tea with mint leaves from the garden, shared on a small metal cup that belonged to babushka Baba Nina.
Stop for ice cream on the way back home”
It is like our secret code to this special club we call home. Growing up, my parents always told my brother and me that our home was truly ours, with them, and at any time. We would always have a forever home with them. I did move back home briefly and brought my whole family with me. Of course, sharing space with your parents as an adult is different. They don’t always realize you have actually grown. I am still 23 years younger than my mother and 33 years older than my kids.
The most memorable day trip meal with my parents was always “Farofa de Frango” or fried chicken cooked with toasted cassava flour. When cooled, it was packed in a can, and it could last for days. That was a popular food people took to the beach long long ago.
We do not always think about the routine and the things we do like making a sandwich, flipping and tucking our socks, sharing a can of sardines, or reminding each other where our meeting place is in case of an emergency. But there’s so much comfort in these connections, in knowing all of them, from past to future.