Memories

I walked down a favorite memory lane this afternoon in my beautiful Newcastle. Fall was in the air. The crispy crunch of dried leaves underfoot offered the perfect autumn soundtrack. A disorderly gang of them came skittering along the curb as I stepped from the car beside First United Methodist Church.

A friend had dropped me off so I could attend their annual bazaar and luncheon. Someone who had already enjoyed the festivities was heading out and kindly held the door for me. The moment it opened, the warm fragrances of chili and chicken noodle soup charged out to greet me, locking horns with a chill little breeze. My side of the battle was clear — I slipped inside and pulled in a deep breath of that glorious aroma. As I passed the kitchen door, the mixture of scents wrapped around me so completely that my stomach responded on instinct.

Memories of years gone by tugged at me. I recalled all the mornings I’d been inside those same doors long before the bazaar opened. Tables and chairs arranged to use every inch of space. Silverware and napkins laid out with care, serving tools lined up where each dish would be set. Pots to be stirred. My old familiar tummy growl — even after a perfectly good breakfast — never failed to make an appearance.

This was my church of earliest memory. As ranch dwellers, we rarely attended except on Easter or Christmas, but as a young adult I took a more active role, even teaching junior high Sunday School. That’s when “bazaar day” became especially dear to
me. I had long enjoyed the event as a casual visitor, but once I joined the planning and preparation, I learned just
how much hustle went on behind the scenes to make it all look easy.

An accordion wall separates the sanctuary from this big back room. With the help of strong overhead fans, it keeps worshippers from being ambushed by food aromas during services. Right now, though, the chili and chicken noodle were busy fighting over my taste buds.

And I left you at the first course, didn’t I? Dessert always comes last, of course. Apple and cherry pies winked at me from beneath their crusts, and the cream pies hid under shy little swirls of meringue. My taste buds argued back and forth, tugging at me to choose one, but with a line behind me I finally had to make up my mind and move along. Given the great cooks and the variety, I couldn’t have gone wrong. And I didn’t — the tangy-sweet lemon cream with its light meringue top
was perfect.

I can hardly wait for next November. If you weren’t part of the festive, happy crowd today, I’m sorry you missed it.