It’s funny to think of Love’s Bakery as such an integral part of growing up in Hawaii. You’re supposed to think first of the pao dulce grandma used to make on warm Saturday mornings when the dough would rise nicely in the heat, or the andagi the neighbor would fry by the hundreds and bring over in greasy paper bags.

Those home-baked treats that only one specific pair of hands knew how to make tasted like everything good and real about home.

But Love’s bread, mass produced in a factory in the industrial part of Honolulu, tastes, for many, like a Hawaii childhood. It tastes like home just as much as the mango chutney made from the fruit of Aunty Ginny’s big tree or the crack seed grandpa used to actually soak and crack himself.

To hear that the big bakery that made the most basic of staples for Hawaii kitchen tables and lunchboxes for nearly 170 years is closing, a victim of the pandemic economy, is a shock larger than any other restaurant or store closing on the island.

Love’s Bread is connected to every store that sold it, from the biggest supermarkets to the smallest gas station mini-marts. In the everyday lives of Hawaii families, it’s more an extinction than a business closure.

Love’s Bakery made the bread for the iceberg-lettuce-and-tuna sandwiches served at the Senior Citizens bingo luncheons. It made the powdered donuts that were tied to a string for that silly game on the old Checkers and Pogo TV show in the 1970s.

Love’s made hamburger buns that were actually the right size for homemade hamburgers. On store shelves, it was the most recognizable brand to local eyes, the happy yellow-and-red label, the gingham checks that suggested picnic baskets and cookouts with friends, the red heart standing in for an apostrophe like a love letter written by a kid.

Perhaps the thing that will be missed most about Love’s Bakery, though, is the smell that wafted from its Kalihi factory onto the freeway on the drive into town from the airport. That part of the island seems nothing like an island — all concrete lanes, concrete dividers, concrete buildings and rows of cars that always back up under the Middle Street overpass.

But when you’re stuck in that bottleneck, there’s a moment to enjoy the smell of baking bread drifting from the bakery. That wonderful smell is a comfort, a welcome contrast to the congestion and grime of the city, an olfactory memory of softer things and gentler days.

The company’s Federal Worker Adjustment and Retraining Notification (WARN) letter and Hawaii Dislocated Workers Act notice, sums up the situation like a coroner’s report describing the cause of death:

This one hits hard. Love’s bread has been breakfast toast with butter and guava jelly in Hawaii for generations. Like Grandma’s pao dulce and the neighbor’s andagi, Love’s products, particularly the basic white bread, have a very specific taste and texture.

Hawaii people may love their rice and their poi, but they love Love’s too, though maybe not in the same way because it was never hard to find.  For some, a replacement will always be second best, not because it’s not better, but because it’s not the same.

Beyond nostalgia is a deeper issue: How can we be serious about growing our own food and being self-sufficient in Hawaii if we can’t keep the one big bakery going without the tourist industry to prop up sales?

Love’s had equipment, facilities, trained workers, an established distribution system and the customer base. Hawaii couldn’t sustain even one of the most basic food products without tourists. How is diversified ag going to fill in the gaps with niche products or things people have to be taught to eat and love?

It’s not an unsolvable problem, but it will require understanding the sustainable scale of supply and demand, and contingency plans for survival should tourism take a nose dive again. Love’s had brand devotion and a long history in Hawaii, and that wasn’t enough.