I went to Yarmouth, Nova Scotia once. It was a weekend trip with a boy when I was 18. I hadn’t thought of that trip for a long time, until the other morning, when I was eating toast.
I am a bread devotee. I buy homemade bread at our superlative, local bakery. If we don’t eat it in a timely fashion, I store it in the fridge so it won’t spoil but can be used for toast and french toast or grilled cheese. I stood staring out the kitchen window while I was eating my toast with butter AND strawberry jam, thank you very much, when I was nearly stunned by a vivid recollection of the Yarmouth trip.
We were eating breakfast at a pretty, little spot with lace curtains and lanterns on the tables. The English muffins were freshly baked, served with an assortment of condiments that included peanut butter and honey. That boy, whom I thought I loved and at that time believed was gracing my life with his superior presence, questioned the wisdom of eating English muffins with both honey and peanut butter, inferring that resulting weight gain would be unappealing.
I have other shadowy memories of the trip to Yarmouth but what I recall most clearly is the criticism of my eating habits. Being young and naive, and living in an alternate reality where I was an equal partner in the relationship, I nursed that arrogant boy through a horrendous episode of mononucleosis that immediately followed our return from Yarmouth. The end of that trip should have been the end of the road.