When Zucchini Bread Made Me Cry

And I had to explain to myself why

Unsplash: credit Whitney Wright

I am one of six siblings in my family, and most of my family can cry at the drop of a hat. At a wedding? No problem. Baby birth? Easy peasy. Reading a birthday card? Of course. Watching a good movie? It’s like life itself, and the tears flow early on.

My dad could never see any of his children off at the airport as we headed out to do our adult lives. He would give us a big hug at our family grocery store, and he would inevitably tear up. Then it was my mom who would drive us because somehow she had the emotional wherewithal to separate.

To this day, we all give credit to my dad, who showed us that men can cry. In fact, my brothers are the biggest criers of the lot. Me? I occasionally tear up. When we had to put down our beloved dog, Nemo, after 14 years of his devoted companionship, I was shocked at how much I cried.

I will still recall the morning when it became clear it was time to make the caring decision. When my husband said, “It’s time,” I said,

“How can I do life without Nemo? I don’t know how I will start my day without him waking me up?”

My husband was equally moved, but he had foreseen this problem, which is why three years earlier, we got a second dog, “Teddy,” who was to pick up where Nemo left off. And ever the practical guy, my husband gave us a chunk of time to bond. Teddy helped ease my sorrow, but I cried every day for three months after we said goodbye to Nemo. They weren’t necessarily long cries, but I would see something that would bring back a memory, and there I was, tears running down my face.

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So this is all to say that, in general, I am not a crier, but I have my moments, like my siblings.

And a moment caught me recently that surprised me. My husband and I had plans to head to New York to visit our daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren. I thought I would make something relatively healthy and tasty to have with coffee or tea for when we arrived.

Because we often can’t control where our mind goes, what popped into my mind was,

“Zucchini bread!”

Then I said, because I am very good at talking to myself,

“You can’t make that. You haven’t made that since Mom died. You’ve not been able to heal that sore. Leave it.”

Now the story about my mom and zucchini bread goes like this: She was in her late eighties when food had begun to lose its flavor, and her weight was dropping. She was in the Midwest, and I lived on the East Coast; I would visit her roughly every six weeks to give her a pep talk.

I would always say before heading her way,

“Now you need to eat your vegetables, so I am bringing you zucchini bread.”

This would invariably make my mom laugh, but before you knew it, there we would be, in her room with tea and zucchini bread, rehashing old times. I understood my mom’s need to rehash old times; It was what she remembered best, and it left her feeling very warm. So many memories comprise a lifetime, and when we can share them with someone who was there for a big part of it, those moments take on new life. Especially as we ate our zucchini bread, she would rave about how it was the best bread ever.

Before returning home, I would always leave her with an extra loaf of zucchini bread, but I knew that it wouldn’t be eaten in the same way, with the same gusto. A big part of the pleasure is that it was us, together, breaking bread, so to speak.

So here I was in my kitchen, deciding it was time to break out the recipe and make zucchini bread for the first time in eight years. It felt like a big decision that needed explaining, at least to myself. Again, talking to myself:

“You can’t spend the rest of your life running away from zucchini bread. Besides, you can revive the tradition and add a new twist. Now you have grandchildren. Maybe you will connect the generations through this simple vegetable that makes quite a tasty cake.”

I chose right, and as I cried, I made the damn bread. It was actually damn good, and it came with a story for my daughter and her family. There we were, having tea in New York, as I reminisced about visiting their Bubbie (Yiddish for grandmother) at the elder care facility.

I explained that the bread was the right level of sweetness — not cloying but sweet enough, and with cinnamon, one of Bubbie’s favorite spices. It was soft, which is particularly good when you are over 90. On that, I added,

“Do you know what Bubbie used to ask her dentist? Which will go first — my teeth or me?”

This made us all laugh. It also made it worth my shedding a few tears eight years later when I had taken on the challenge of re-familiarizing myself with a recipe I was sure I had said goodbye to.

Just maybe (still talking to myself), an old tradition has been revived with a slightly new identity. After all, we have grandchildren and memories of a 92-year-old connected by a piece of bread and some good stories. With just a little luck and a few chuckles, she will learn that her “great-Bubbie” was, in so many ways, truly great.

Eat on!