By Priscilla Dann-Courtney
Old as she was, she still missed her daddy sometimes.
~Gloria Naylor
"Four sesame, two poppy in a plastic bag if I could?" I say to the nice man with a pierced ear behind the bagel counter. Bagels have seasoned my nutritional and emotional world since I can remember. My father's butter and bacon bagel sandwiches dripped a salty sweetness on Sunday mornings. The richness matched his warm love that started from his sloppy blue leather slippers and spread to the top of his peppery gray hair. He enjoyed making me these breakfast sandwiches as much as I enjoyed eating them. We could only eat one kind of bagel: New York City's H&H. He'd pick up half a dozen every few days. Never more — you can't eat a bagel that's not fresh. We weren't big on cream cheese, unless it was cream cheese and olive sandwiches on Jewish rye. But H&H bagels only needed butter, spread when the bagel was still hot so my father's fingers jumped a little as he called, "Bagel's done!"
Old as she was, she still missed her daddy sometimes.
~Gloria Naylor
"Four sesame, two poppy in a plastic bag if I could?" I say to the nice man with a pierced ear behind the bagel counter. Bagels have seasoned my nutritional and emotional world since I can remember. My father's butter and bacon bagel sandwiches dripped a salty sweetness on Sunday mornings. The richness matched his warm love that started from his sloppy blue leather slippers and spread to the top of his peppery gray hair. He enjoyed making me these breakfast sandwiches as much as I enjoyed eating them. We could only eat one kind of bagel: New York City's H&H. He'd pick up half a dozen every few days. Never more — you can't eat a bagel that's not fresh. We weren't big on cream cheese, unless it was cream cheese and olive sandwiches on Jewish rye. But H&H bagels only needed butter, spread when the bagel was still hot so my father's fingers jumped a little as he called, "Bagel's done!"
When I was sixteen years old, my parents got divorced and my dad moved out. I stopped eating butter and bacon bagel sandwiches — among other things. Bagels, however, remained. My father continued to bring home the bagels to a different house and eventually a different wife. The bagels were always there when I visited; he'd toast them just right. I only ate one half and always plain. I'd seen a friend dip her bagel in tea. I tried it, thinking of Oreos in milk, donuts dipped in coffee. But I only needed to do it once; a soggy wet bagel was not part of my heritage.
Once a week, when I was at college, a large padded manila envelope arrived, stuffed with bagels — poppy and sesame seeds sprinkling their way into our dorm room. I shared more than I ate, but the smell made me feel at home. At age nineteen, I bicycled 4,200 miles across the country. The ten mail stops along the way brought ten bagel packages. From Independence, Missouri to Reedsport, Oregon, my father never missed a bagel delivery.
When I transferred from upstate New York to a Colorado college, not only did the bagels have to travel farther, but I was in a town that hadn't heard of bagels. A breakfast round with a hole in the center was a "donut" in Boulder, Colorado. Now the bagels arrived by Fed Ex to keep their freshness. When I fell in love and moved in with the man who is now my husband of twenty-five years, he'd smile when the Fed Ex truck arrived. "The bagel truck is here!" he'd call out with the same excitement as kids when the ice cream truck shows up. He loved to spread cream cheese on his bagel and add a slice of ham. When I got pregnant with the first of our three children, I reintroduced butter to my bagel... and lots of it.
Next came the question of religion and how we were to raise our children. Since my husband was a Catholic and I was a Jew, the situation demanded a compromise. We agreed we'd raise the children with meditating, eating bagels, and celebrating both Hanukkah and Christmas. My son's first solid food was tiny pieces I broke off my morning bagel. As a toddler, I took him to the first bagel shop that opened. He was verbal enough to say, "Papa Mike bagel better." I had to agree. With the birth of my second son came the opening of Moe's Broadway Bagel in our area, and my kids had finally found the magic.
It was a Friday evening in winter when I had to tell my father the truth. "Dad I think... I think we found a good bagel out here." We were both quiet and I knew I needed to say more.
"Dad, I really don't think you need to keep sending them." I hesitated and added, "Or maybe, just not as frequently."
My father quietly answered, "Oh."
Like breaking the Sabbath bread, our bagel bond was broken that Friday evening. I knew I had to be the adult and reassure my eighty-year-old father that it didn't mean I didn't love him. We both laughed at how silly it felt that we were making such a big deal about bagels. But we also knew that years of feelings were spread thick atop those sesame and poppy seed bagels.
My children now connect with me through bagels. A "mommy" bagel is one that is slightly toasted and spread with butter, never margarine. As each has entered adolescence, there have been shouts of, "Isn't there something DIFFERENT for breakfast than bagels?" My older son now attends college in Florida. No bagel deliveries are necessary. But when he flew in for the holidays late one night, I did make him a "mommy" bagel, toasted just right. I can only hope he tastes the sweet warmth I felt as my father's daughter.
Once a week, when I was at college, a large padded manila envelope arrived, stuffed with bagels — poppy and sesame seeds sprinkling their way into our dorm room. I shared more than I ate, but the smell made me feel at home. At age nineteen, I bicycled 4,200 miles across the country. The ten mail stops along the way brought ten bagel packages. From Independence, Missouri to Reedsport, Oregon, my father never missed a bagel delivery.
When I transferred from upstate New York to a Colorado college, not only did the bagels have to travel farther, but I was in a town that hadn't heard of bagels. A breakfast round with a hole in the center was a "donut" in Boulder, Colorado. Now the bagels arrived by Fed Ex to keep their freshness. When I fell in love and moved in with the man who is now my husband of twenty-five years, he'd smile when the Fed Ex truck arrived. "The bagel truck is here!" he'd call out with the same excitement as kids when the ice cream truck shows up. He loved to spread cream cheese on his bagel and add a slice of ham. When I got pregnant with the first of our three children, I reintroduced butter to my bagel... and lots of it.
Next came the question of religion and how we were to raise our children. Since my husband was a Catholic and I was a Jew, the situation demanded a compromise. We agreed we'd raise the children with meditating, eating bagels, and celebrating both Hanukkah and Christmas. My son's first solid food was tiny pieces I broke off my morning bagel. As a toddler, I took him to the first bagel shop that opened. He was verbal enough to say, "Papa Mike bagel better." I had to agree. With the birth of my second son came the opening of Moe's Broadway Bagel in our area, and my kids had finally found the magic.
It was a Friday evening in winter when I had to tell my father the truth. "Dad I think... I think we found a good bagel out here." We were both quiet and I knew I needed to say more.
"Dad, I really don't think you need to keep sending them." I hesitated and added, "Or maybe, just not as frequently."
My father quietly answered, "Oh."
Like breaking the Sabbath bread, our bagel bond was broken that Friday evening. I knew I had to be the adult and reassure my eighty-year-old father that it didn't mean I didn't love him. We both laughed at how silly it felt that we were making such a big deal about bagels. But we also knew that years of feelings were spread thick atop those sesame and poppy seed bagels.
My children now connect with me through bagels. A "mommy" bagel is one that is slightly toasted and spread with butter, never margarine. As each has entered adolescence, there have been shouts of, "Isn't there something DIFFERENT for breakfast than bagels?" My older son now attends college in Florida. No bagel deliveries are necessary. But when he flew in for the holidays late one night, I did make him a "mommy" bagel, toasted just right. I can only hope he tastes the sweet warmth I felt as my father's daughter.
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