My taste-tester is gone. I, the neophobe, relied on my beloved to sample foods on my behalf and even more importantly, to cast judgment on whether or not I would enjoy the taste myself. He, a neophile, never shied away from sampling. My concern – that I would be stuck with a plate of food I did not like or an unpleasant taste forever lingering on my tongue – was foreign to him. In all our years, I only ever knew him to truly hate one food – a turquoise Skittle of all things, which he promptly spat out the car window. (In full disclosure, he wasn’t fond of quinoa either, but he didn’t say it “tasted like ass” as he did of the Skittle.)

Now, in his absence, I stare at menus, evaluating ingredients and casting personal aspersions at their combinations. My dear child credits me for his wide-palette, citing the fact that I encouraged him, when we ate out, to choose dishes we did not make at home. What was really a broke mother’s way of not overpaying for mac and cheese or chicken nuggets off a kids’ menu inadvertently created a fearless foodie on par with my beloved. During our family vacation to Maine, my then teenage son ordered a fresh lobster dinner half again as large as James’ order. When asked if he’d ever had lobster, he nonchalantly answered, “No, but it sounds good.” To his credit, he ate nearly all of that market-value splurge.

Today, an overcast, on-again-off-again rainy day on the Pacific coast, and with the tide yet too low for some of my scenic destinations, I found myself in want of plans. My stomach eventually asserted itself as Chief Decision Maker and I found myself pulling into a one-of-a-kind, small town eatery. Before going in, still sitting in the safe, uncommitted seat of the rental car, I perused the restaurant’s online menu – my neophobia wanted to at least insure they had some options that were guaranteed to be somewhat palatable. Once so assured, I grabbed my notebook and headed in.

I had parked in the back (due entirely to my complete inability to parallel park) and followed the restaurant’s sign down some rain-worn wooden stairs. For the naysayers who don’t believe in love at first sight, believe me when I say that’s precisely what happened for me. The restaurant’s back, with the help of multiple sets of old, french-style doors, opened to an extended seating area. The small cafe tables were surrounded by wildflowers, herbs, potted and hanging plants – color in all shapes and sizes. If I were to design a cafe, this would be is exactly. Through a closed, glass-paned door, I saw a man chopping peppers. Fearful of walking right into the kitchen, I had to ask people seated nearby if that was, in fact, the entrance (it was). Once inside, I was directed down a short hallway full of the this n’ that’s of a tourist town store and to the host stand who led me to a booth by the front window where I was perhaps a hundred yards from the ocean.

Opening the menu I realized my circadian-rhythm-challenged body had been hoping for breakfast but the restaurant, operating on Pacific Time, was in full lunch mode. I skimmed until I found a category of “brunch offerings.” My relief was short lived, however, when I realized how drastically this limited my options. Not only was my conservative palette a significant factor, but my breakfast preferences run sweet and these three brunch options were all savory. With a vacant seat beside me – read that: no culinary advice forthcoming – this neophobe was going to have to be brave. I quickly chose the spinach and feta frittata for its straightforward, innocuous ingredients and because it came with home fries and toast and I am all about side dishes when I eat. To be completely honest, it was the toast that really sold me on the choice, as with a little jam, it might satiate my first-meal sweet tooth.

When I gave my order to the waitress, she seemed particularly pleased with the choice – especially when I added a glass of orange juice. The menu touted “organic” and “local” and I had no doubt the quality of my meal would be top-notch.

While I waited, I opened my notebook and checked my list of things I wanted to see and do in the area. Confirming my plan for the afternoon, I then turned to a writing I had started a couple days ago. I reread the lines I had written and tried to mentally compose what to write next when the waitress placed the glass of orange juice (and one of water) in front of me. More true to the color than even Crayola, it was the most perfect orange juice – juice that is orange – that I have ever seen. My pencil gave pause, my thoughts on my story faded as I marveled at a simple and yet elegant glass of juice.

Moments later, my brunch plate was placed on the worn table in front of me. “Jam?” the waitress asked. She set an apparently randomly-chosen squeeze -bottle in on the table of an unidentified red jam and I delighted at the prospect of squeezing jam onto my toast. I spread the perfectly softened butter and then swizzled jam on top unintentionally creating the most perfect piece of toast. I placed it back on top of the frittata just as it had been served and then I sat back and savored the moment.

I have spent the last three days (and the next five to come) on the Oregon Coast. It took me nine hours to drive 118 miles yesterday because I pulled over at every chance to savor the view. When booking the trip, the only amenity required for each hotel choice was that it had a view of the ocean. The sound, the beauty, the breeze, it just does something to my soul and I wanted to seize every opportunity to relish it all.

When we pause to savor a moment, a taste, a view, a sound, a smell, when we stop to relish, we make time very nearly stand still. When we are fully present, aware of all our surroundings, when we are mentally still, it is much easier to recognize blessings, to acknowledge gratitude and with gratitude, we find joy.

The breakfast – nay “brunch”- did not disappoint my picky taste buds. The frittata was light and fresh, the organic home fries had just the perfect amount of light seasoning and roasted crispness to delight my taste buds and the toast, the seemingly banal side choice proved, beyond what I had even hoped, as the pièce de la résistance.

I finished writing this on the balcony of my hotel room, again a hundred yards and in direct sight of high tide on the Pacific Ocean. The clouds persisted and the temps remained cool so the beach was all but empty. But during the time I sat there with pencil and paper, I watched dogs frolicking in the water and sand while playing endless games of fetch. I watched parents with small children fly kites in the heavy breeze. I saw couples holding hands while they strolled leisurely along the water and I witnessed swimmers braving the waves and cold to laugh in the ocean. Every one of them made time pause today. Every one of them held still the hands of the eternal clock while they played with their dog, helped their child’s heart soar or crossed a bucket list item off their list. At the end of the day, the vacation or this life, when the questions loom, “What was it all? What did I have? What did I do?” we will have this. We will have all the moments we savored.

Before leaving the area the following day, I stopped once again at the restaurant, this time definitively during breakfast hours. I ate an amazing home-made crepe filled with Oregon pears and huckleberries. I once again, marveled at the glass of juice that defines the color orange and I once again paused to smile at the plants and flowers off the back room. I could retire in Yachats, Oregon and eat at the Drift Inn multiple times a week and want for nothing more. For now, I have these memories to remind me that joy comes in all shapes and sizes – from the orangest of juice to the sweetest of jams – and I am all the better for having savored every moment.