To some, a scoop of “Chocolate Mint” might be delightful. To my Mom, a hot bagel with butter or cream cheese on a summer evening was heaven-sent, and I was the fetcher. So call me an angel of delight. 

“Jay! Jay! What Mom? Take a ride and get us some hot bagels.   You know, the real HOT ones.”  Now you guys know I am only twelve years old here. The bagel factory is down St. John St. over on the Cold Spring Road, going out of town past the train station just a few miles from our hacienda.   There was only one answer a Jewish son would have for his mother: “How many do you want, Mom? The usual a baker’s dozen mixed.” 

Why I asked, I don’t know. Something never changed.

So, with cash stuffed down deep in my jean pocket, I was ready to mount the “silver streak” or, more like the “silver slug,” actually, it was a 24-inch fat tire, Schwinn. Ok, it was not a Schwinn, and it was not silver. It was maroon, the color my Father painted this used gem. One time it might have been silver and a Schwinn.

The bike had a silver-looking front basket straddling the front tire connected to the handlebars.   The basket my Father mounted on my cycle was oversized for my pony. Now that I think about it, I always did errands for my Father when my mother asked him to get her something. He always said my basket was big enough. Hmmm….

Now, if any open road maverick had any pride, they made sure the playing cards were attached to the mainframe with snap-close pins adequately set so the spokes would provide the purr any Harley rider would be envious of. I had multi cards front and back.

I was ready to mount this single-speed (not ten-speed, one-speed) pony, and off I went. 

Now I knew it was beginning to get dark, but I had to pace myself for the ride back was a ride this Andretti had to preserve his energy for. “Hot” is critical in this adventure, and slow back does not do it.

 I arrived at this humble none, descript small white masonry, free-standing building with light pouring out. Through the open front door, the heat from the ovens, the most delicious, incredible intoxicating aroma, filled the evening surroundings and the olfactory of a young boy’s senses. 

Inside there were masonry kettles on the floor with precision hand-formed bagels boiling. They say the purity of the clear cold Catskill water is the secret. I believe them. There the bakers finished the bagels in the hot ovens with various toppings giving them the beautiful light brown glaze hiding and protecting the tender hot center, ready to accept the melting butter or cream cheese in preparation and lovingly devoured. This adherence to detail was old-school baking with no modern equipment, and it was the best!

After receiving my order fresh out of the oven in I was off. Purring down the back streets as fast as I could go, the aroma pouring forth from the large brown paper bag sitting comfortably in the basket inches from my smell senses as I rode standing up leaning over the handlebars was too intoxicating. My resistance had faded; I had to have one. Tearing one in half and throwing the other half, it’s hot! So hot! Back in the bag, I took a mouthwatering bite as I rode. It burned my fingers, but I had no choice; my soul needed to satisfy its craving. I can smell that aroma now, and the taste, well, they don’t make them like that anymore.

I arrived home just in time to see the sparkle in my mother and Father’s expectation eyes. Then, finally, Mom was ready with the butter and cream cheese. Dad was salivating to indulge. 

I was sitting on the front porch illuminated with bright moonlight stars, with my Mom and Dad telling stories provoking an exuberant amount of laughter.

I recall seeing the sparkle in my parent’s eyes, eating “Hot bagels,” well, it just does not get any better.

I would give anything to have another one of those few moments. That’s Heaven.