With the holidays upon us, I find myself reflecting on the small, almost unnoticeable things that somehow bring the most joy into our lives. Many of these are food-related, as much of life’s pleasure often is. But beyond food, there are tiny comforts, miniature luxuries that hold unique significance.
For me, many of these pleasures are tied to my travels. I think often of the warm seafood salad that has become my first port of call on the Amalfi Coast. The restaurant is somewhat unremarkable, near the end of the main thoroughfare, with hours that make sense only to locals. The menu is handwritten and never changes, because it doesn’t need to – everything is perfect, especially the seafood salad. The large Amalfitana lemon wedge adds the ideal touch to fresh prawns, calamari, mussels and clams. Each time I return, it’s not only as delicious as I remembered, but somehow even better.
Or, I think of my son, Arthur, and his delight over croissants in the south of France. Every morning, he was drawn to the bakery, pressing his little hands against the glass to point at the sugary, perfectly-crusted palmiers he insisted were “needed” for breakfast. Crumbs would dust his face, speckle his clothing and cover the floor of our rental. When we returned home to the U.S., he was completely unimpressed with the pastries on offer. “They’re not the same,” he would say, and I couldn’t fault him. They weren’t the same – not only in taste or freshness but also in context. There was no French Riviera outside, no bustling village streets to wander. These are the things I remember.
Sometimes, I think back to the chocolate muffins from Rye Bakery in Flushing where I’d stop during college, or the homemade breakfast bars sold at a Calgary health food store when we lived there. I think of the corner diner in Alberta that served the best hot chicken sandwiches outside of Nashville – maybe even better, if I’m honest.
Every morning, he was drawn to the bakery, pressing his little hands against the glass to point at the sugary, perfectly-crusted palmiers he insisted were “needed” for breakfast.
And if I move beyond food, I find myself in the memory of a Victorian bed and breakfast in Shannon, Ireland. I see the view from the window; horses roaming the neighboring hills, the morning fog lifting from the grass as the sun rises. I recall stumbling into a church service in Denmark; the words foreign, the religion unfamiliar, but somehow close enough to feel comforting.
Or, my mind drifts back to the metro rides Arthur and I took in Spain after my divorce. I remember the fear and confusion, unfamiliar with the system and doing my best to follow directions given in Spanish, all while carrying a two-year-old in varying stages of wakefulness. I struggled to catch the right stop, find a seat and appear like I knew what I was doing. It was terrifying at the time, and just a small part of that beautiful trip, yet somehow that simple memory lingers the most. I remember how we rode that metro together, eventually finding our way, no matter where we were going.
These small things, these trifling moments, become the big things. The seemingly insignificant aspects of a trip can create the most enduring memories. So, at this time of year, I remind myself that the small details, the little bits of extra magic put into the festivities, might become Arthur’s fondest childhood memories. They might be the moments I look back on most fondly as I grow older. And as I travel the world, collecting more of these small treasures, I realize it will be these tiny things at home that I’ll miss the most.
In the end, it’s always the small things. The minutiae, the afterthoughts – these are what we cherish. They are the details that make us, the pieces of life we carry with us, the things that make it all worthwhile.
So, remember to cherish those small things. They’re not just big things – they’re everything.
