Preeti leaned against the balcony railing, eyes scanning the street below. Soon she heard the familiar honk of his bicycle. “Tring! Tring! Tring!”

Every Monday, he came, balancing a large tin box on his bicycle, filled with freshly baked patties. Preeti never missed buying from him. She didn’t like patties, but they reminded her of something she missed deeply.

Back in her small hometown, every Monday morning, Preeti and her father would set out together. It was the weekly holiday, so the market streets wore a sleepy hush. But ‘The Town Bakery’ always remained open. Its buttery aroma created a quiet oasis amid the stillness.

Outside its iron gate, they would pause. Her father asked the same question every week: “What do you want today, my little pastry queen?”

And every time, her reply came with the same sparkle.

“Two mango pastries, one butterscotch, and one chocolate!” she chirped, already imagining the colorful icing.

“And no patties?” he teased.

“I don’t like patties.”

“And what if your heart craves a bite when you see us eating?”

“I won’t! I never like patties,” she declared, arms crossed in mock defiance.

Behind the counter, Michael Uncle would laugh, adding a handful of cookies to the packet while whispering,
“These are for you and your sister. Don’t fight over them.”

Now, far from that sleepy small town, in a bustling city apartment, Preeti takes a slow bite of the vegetable patty. The aroma—earthy, peppery, with a hint of baked comfort—fills her nostrils. In that bite, time folds inward.

She’s back at the bakery, standing at the gate, holding her father’s hand. She doesn’t like patties. But maybe she buys them now because inside every bite hides a piece of her childhood and a memory that still tastes like home.

(This post is part of the #BlogchatterFoodFest)