Caramel and Ashes

I named my first child after my favorite breakfast; Nichole, oatmeal sprinkled with cinnamon and cashew pieces. Sensible, but sweet, she wore turtlenecks and flats all throughout high school. My second, James, was like the lunch I had every other day in college – provolone and turkey on sourdough. Sturdy, hardy, jack of all trades. James could build a new clock just as easily as fixing the old one.

---

People keep asking me to taste their names. Like names are ice cream cones, and I’m the only one that gets a lick. Strangers in the hallways know about the girl who eats names like potato chips and aren’t shy about asking how do I taste, Willow? Like I haven’t heard that innuendo before.

---

My third, Willow, inherited my gift. Willow was bittersweet; sea salt, caramel, a little rosemary. She’s a lot like her father. She named the cat Zion for being a combination of her favorite flavors – lemon-lime, vanilla, and grapefruit.

---

I don’t know if the taste of their names influenced who I became friends with, but all my best friends are sweet names. Isabella is candy canes and sweet tea. Belle is fresh and metallic, like cucumber melon on the tip of a fork. Amelia is angel food cake and slices of kiwi. The exception is Catherine – she tastes like caviar and dark chocolate. It’s so rich I have to call her Kathy instead, even though she hates that.

---

My husband, Gordon, tasted like caramel and pepperoni and I craved him throughout each of my pregnancies. He never got to hold Willow – his squadron walked right into a mine field and only two of them came out alive. I haven’t been able to eat pepperoni since; Willow has never known the taste of caramel.

---

Mom doesn’t use my name very often. I know it tastes too similar to my Dad’s name. Nichole is the only one old enough to really remember him; James is just old enough to feel sad about it. I can’t – I’m sad to have never known him, but you can’t really miss what you never had. I guess that makes me an awful person. Anyway, no one likes to bring it up, so we don’t.

The word dad tastes stale to me.

Mom says my name tastes like salt and caramel to her, but all I feel on my tongue when I say my name is ash.