A MEMORY OF SUSHI
If the stars were edible
And our hearts were never full
Could we live with just a taste?
Just a taste
- Music For A Sushi Restaurant, Harry Styles
When I was pregnant, I would think about and want sushi and poké, though not in the give-it-to-me-now way in which I've heard pregnant women describe cravings for things like pickles and ice cream, but in the way of wanting a food I love yet couldn’t currently have. As I drove to work one morning, thinking about food, I recalled a memory from when Andy took me to Hawaii and proposed. It was the last day of the trip and we were filling time before going to the airport. We wandered through a shopping plaza brimming with booths selling anything from trinkets to clothes to food. We began to search for something to eat, when we found it: tucked into a corner at the back of the plaza was a tiny sushi spot. The whole place was merely two counters with stools plus the kitchen. I think it could seat five customers at a time, tops. Immediately, Andy sensed that this was someplace special. We waited a bit until a couple finished and left, then sat down elbow to elbow at the counter.
The cook set menus in front of us. When the food came out, it was delicious and beautiful: colorful sushi rolls, artfully formed. We ate with relish, savoring every bite. It was getting late for lunch, so by the time we were served we were the only ones there. it all felt so special: the discovery of the tucked-away eatery, intuiting that it was worth waiting for, and having the place all to ourselves.
When we finished eating, the cook plucked a flower from a tiny vase on the counter and handed it to me with a smile. We thanked him heartily for everything and left, winding back through the plaza and stepping outside. I posed with the flower beside the rented Mustang convertible while Andy took a picture. Then he got behind the wheel and we drove on, my engagement ring sparkling bright on my finger in the warm sunshine.
When the memory came to me, it felt like a gift. It was a moment which could have been forgotten, shoehorned as it was towards the end of a full trip. Other memories are grander and easier to recall, such as going swimming with dolphins, visiting a gorgeous and tranquil monastery, Pearl Harbor, and of course the moment when Andy took me hiking to his favorite spot on the end of the island, getting on one knee where sky met water and me saying yes before he’d even asked.
The future will hold more sushi memories, I'm sure. Recalling that pregnant absence of any new sushi experiences, I was all the more thankful for such a sweet one. I'm thankful for how my fiancé looked for food he hoped I'd love. I’m sentimental over how we sat on those stools in the little corner eatery and only put down our chopsticks so as not to rush through the meal, nodding to each other with our mouths full to say how delicious everything tasted.
One day we'll tell our son about that trip. Andy will tell him about the weeks of careful planning, I'll tell him about the determination I felt to be content and present should the purpose of the trip not be engagement, and then we'll both share about the time after I said yes: long drives and sunsets and banyan trees. About shrimp and shave ice and sushi. Maybe, as we tell the story, we'll remember other things we had almost forgotten, memories which only become more special over time, as good memories tend to do.
