I was always close to my mother, but I wasn’t particularly eager to join her on errands during winter break, especially when I had precious days to finally play in the snow. Growing up in the tropics, the only chance I’d experience the cold stuff was on our annual holiday trip to Vermont — a brief, wondrous window to build snowmen, sled and ski. Each moment felt like a magical, all-too-short escape.
“It’ll just take a minute,” my mother said, leading me into the bank after our yearly clothes shopping on Main Street. I rolled my eyes and sighed but knew there was no escaping it — I was only 9, after all.
The bank was vast and solemn, with massive marble columns that looked as if they’d been built for ancient gods, not the citizens of Rutland. My mother gestured for me to have a seat on one of the forest-green leather benches lining the far wall. Reluctantly, I complied, shuffling my brand new (and sadly, unused) winter boots along the polished floor, imagining I was swishing through snow instead. The giant clock ticked toward the close of another day.
Life, at that moment, felt utterly bleak.
But then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted something intriguing: a gleaming silver bowl on a credenza at the far end of the lobby. It shone invitingly, brightening the hushed, grown-up atmosphere of the bank. Though I was usually a cautious child, my curiosity was piqued and I couldn’t resist. I slipped out of my mother’s line of sight and made my way toward the bowl. No one noticed or stopped me — I was on a mission, convinced that it had to be filled with candy.
To my surprise, it wasn’t candy at all, but rather a custard-colored beverage I guessed was eggnog. I hadn’t grown up drinking eggnog during the holidays, and while ponche crema (made with rum) is the Venezuelan equivalent, it had somehow fallen through the cultural cracks of my American-Israeli home.
As I ladled the thick, creamy liquid into my cup, the rich scent of vanilla and nutmeg filled the air. It reminded me of floating islands, a favorite dessert my mother often made. I took a sip and instantly understood why this drink was special, why it was a holiday treat.
I’m not sure how many glasses I drank that day, but I know I was entirely absorbed in my newfound obsession. Then, from behind me, I heard my mother’s voice.
“Honey, I’ve been calling you. We’re ready to go.”
I turned around, feeling both full and reluctant to leave. “Already?” I asked, my shoulders drooping at the thought of leaving the eggnog behind.
She smiled, ruffling my hair. “Sometimes, the things you least want to do bring the sweetest surprises,” she replied.
And she was right. Even now, the scent of nutmeg brings me back to that winter day. While I may not indulge in quite as many cups, each sip still carries a little taste of that holiday magic.
Happy Reading!
Alona Abbady Martinez
alona@bocaratonobserver.com