The aroma of thinly sliced onions
A memory of my mother’s love
For many years, my mom worked at a family-run deli in our small town. To me, the deli (also a pizzeria and small grocery) was an extension of Mom. Everyone in our town liked her because at some point she had made them a turkey sub or sold them a potato salad, and said something nice to make their day brighter. I liked to visit her at work because even when she was busy, she would smile and hug me.
In the deli, there were all kinds of things that needed slicing. Meats, cheeses, lettuce, tomatoes, onions. Once when I was 10 or 11 at work with my mom, before the deli managers got strict about following codes, they let me slice a few things on the commercial slicer. I learned the key to texture and flavor was to slice each food to exactly the right thickness. The most aromatic of the foods were the onions, which you sliced paper thin, so they fell out limp and juicy.
Some nights my mom worked very late and on those nights, she would quietly enter my bedroom to give me a kiss while I slept. But sometimes I woke up and hugged her, and after so many hours in the deli, her hair and clothes were bathed in the scent of thinly sliced onions.
For eight years, until I went away to college, that oniony hug was one of the best moments of my day.
