Sunday, March 27, 2011

Going Home-A remembrance of things past

from the archives

Under the ash, home
By ANDREW J. SKERRITT
Published January 8, 2004



OLVESTON, Montserrat - I finally went home again. Eight years after my last visit, I walked down the gangway of the Opale Express, an Australian-built catamaran, and stepped on the concrete jetty.


Ahead of me the landscape rose sharply in parched bluffs and rock outcroppings. Wooden shacks lined the road from the waterfront. Unfamiliar faces greeted me at the customs house.


My return home was a familiar ritual, to bury family, my father. But on that placid October afternoon, none of that mattered. I was home, even if home was a vastly different place.


Montserrat, the 38-square-mile island where I grew up, had been sliced in two when the volcano rumbled to life in July 1995. It uprooted most of my relatives, friends and former neighbors. Some of them stayed on the island, but most left. You can find them mostly on the streets and in double-decker buses in London, Birmingham, Leicester and Manchester, England, or in New York and Miami.


Those who remained inhabit a truncated world of exclusion and safe zones, ash gray and tropical green, fear and hope.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Bread A Lifelong Love Affair


Hot Bread: A love story.

A journey of the senses..

Tampa, Fla

The red light seemed to take forever to turn green. I tapped my right foot on the brake pedal, impatient to reach home. On the passenger seat next to me sat a long white package. With the windows rolled up on a cool Florida evening, the air inside my car was saturated with the irresistible aroma of hot bread. I reached my right hand over to the passenger seat and touched the white wrapping from Mauricio’s Bakery. Home was less than five minutes away, but as the aroma of hot bread filled my car, it seduced me; I couldn’t hold out that long. With one hand on the steering wheel, I balanced the three-foot long loaf on my knee and broke off the heel, poking the soft moist bread into my mouth. I chewed, swallowed and bit again. I savored the hot soft white loaf, present and past converged, realizing that much of my culinary life was spent in a pursuit of hot bread, butter a must, with cheese if necessary. I’d prefer some butter but savored the warm moist loaf. Within minutes I pulled into the driveway. Bread and butter and meatloaf. Before the night was over, all that was left of the loaf of bread were the crumbs scattered on the granite counter top.