Before the Sun Comes Up

There are some memories that don't begin with sight.

They begin with smell.

Long before the sun rises, before the world fully wakes, something is already happening in the kitchen.

As a child, whenever my grandmother, Mary Panton, came to visit from Portland, Saturday mornings became something special.

Or more accurately...

Saturday mornings began at 3 a.m.

Not because anyone told you to wake up.

But because something in the air called you.

The smell of fried dumplings.

Golden, crisp at the edges, soft inside.

And something deeper.

Richer.

Warmer.

Chocolate tea.

Not the kind that comes from a packet.

This one began long before it reached the pot.

Cocoa beans dried carefully, then pounded in a mortar until they softened into powder.

Rolled by hand into small cocoa balls.

Saved.

Used with intention.

By the time it reached the fire, it carried more than flavor.

It carried time.

Boiled slowly with cinnamon leaf, pieces of cinnamon stick, freshly grated nutmeg and pimento berries then sweetened with condensed milk. Strained carefully into a cup.

Scorching hot.

Always too hot.

But you waited, because it was worth it.

Five fried dumplings if you could manage them and one cup of chocolate tea.

And then back to bed.

Those mornings were quiet. No rush. No noise. Just the gentle rhythm of hands preparing something with love.

Looking back now, I realize it wasn't just breakfast. It was inheritance.

A way of doing things.

A way of taking time.

A way of passing something from one generation to the next without ever needing to explain it, because some traditions are never taught, they are lived. They are breathed in. They become part of you before you even realise they are becoming memories.

And some memories live forever in the very first breath you take before the sun comes up.