Skipped Memories

When I was six years old, my Uncle Dick taught me how to skip rocks on a lake in Muskoka, a cottage area carved out of the Ontario tundra. He had learned to skip rocks as a boy on that same lake and, when she was old enough, had taught my mother. It was a family tradition that I had all but forgotten until now.

Too many years later, I was sitting in a cafe in Cadaques, Spain, a sleepy fishing village that was on the verge of exploding with tourists for the summer season. The day was bright with the just warm sunlight of spring. Lemon yellow and mauve flowers bloomed on the rugged far shore.



Patrick and I sat sharing a creme Catalan, after our lunch of razor clams and calamari, while watching the muted colors of the shallow water blend from navy blue to aquamarine. Three young boys rocked back and forth in a painted wooden boat while fighting for control of the oars. Their squeals reverberated over the water. Another boy watched quietly from his own still boat, as envious of their fun as we were. On shore, a man with silver-frosted Antonio Banderas curls taught a chubby-cheeked girl to skip the flat rocks of the pebbled beach. One, two, three, four, five; his rock skimmed the surface before disappearing. One, two; her rock sunk early. Suddenly, I yearned for home.



In my mind, I was transported back to the shores of Kahshe Lake. The day was cooler, but still I ran barefoot in the sand. I wore my favorite dress that my mother had embroidered elephants on the front of. My uncle stood close to demonstrate the proper way to hold the flat stones and I breathed in the sweet smell of the White Owl cigar he smoked earlier.

"Curl your index finger around the stone," he said.

I flung my arm and released the rock. Plunk. It splashed only once.

Uncle Dick selected another and handed it to me. "Whip your arm from the elbow, holding it close." He showed me again. "Like this." His rock shimmered over the water barely kissing it's surface multiple times.

Determined, I bit my lip and tried my side arm again. This time, I over compensated and sent my rock crashing into the others on shore, avoiding the water altogether. Hot, salty tears streaked down my own chubby cheeks.

Uncle Dick's patience was as solid as those rocks. Again, he bent to select the perfect stone. I wiped my face with my sleeve and stood at an angle to the shore. I held it the way he taught me. I flicked my arm and wrist at just the right time. One, two, three, four; my rock glided over the smooth surface. I smiled a toothless grin, just like the little girl on the shore in Cadaques, when she, too, mastered the art of skipping rocks.

I took another bite of the delicate custard before me. It dissolved in my mouth as I smiled at Patrick. We weren't that far from home after all.

victoria allman



Creme Catalan

2 1/4 cups milk
1 inch peel of each 1 lemon, 1 orange, 1 lime
1 cinnamon stick
6 egg yolks
1/2 cup sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons cornstarch

Heat the milk, citrus peels and cinnamon stick over medium heat until it comes to a boil. Remove from the heat and let steep for 15 minutes to infuse the flavors.

Whisk egg yolks, sugar, and cornstarch together. Slowly add the milk and return to medium-low heat. Stir constantly with a spatula to avoid the eggs scrambling. Heat slowly until the cream thickens. Strain and pour into 6 individual custard dishes. Place in the fridge for 2 hours to set.

Before serving, pre-heat the broiler. Sprinkle 1 tablespoon of sugar evenly over each custard. Place the dishes under the broiler on the top shelf and allow the sugar to caramelize, turning golden brown. Be very careful at this stage as the sugar will be very hot and will easily blister your skin if it comes in contact. Remove and serve immediately.

Serves 6