Friday, February 26, 2016

The Last Time

The older I get, it occurs to me that many times we don't know that the last time is actually the last time something occurs.
It is only in looking back that we realize.
The last time my son held my hand just because.
The last time I carried my daughter to bed.
The last time I ate Baba's massa sovado.
You see, for those of you who never tasted my mother in law's Portuguese Sweet Bread, it was world famous. 
Well, maybe that is a bit of an exaggeration, but not much. 
In her hey day, she would set enormous amounts the bread to rise on trays under sheets on every bed in the house.
She delivered this bit of heaven to friends, family, neighbors and probably strangers.
Although, once a stranger met Baba, they were no longer a stranger..
When a large loaf or a bag of small rolls were brought home or taken to a gathering, the first question was always,
"Is this Baba's sweet bread?"
It was that good.
Yesterday, her daughters gathered with several dear friends to make sweetbread to share.
It was delicious and I know Baba was with them in the kitchen guiding their hands.
And their hearts.