My girlfriend and I often visited my Irish grandmother, whose cozy apartment was in town. My grandmother would bake fresh soda bread or cornbread from scratch. Ah, the wonderful aromas from her oven. And we’d sit, all three of us, around her table and delight in the food and banter. Many years later grandmother died, in her late nineties, with me and my parents beside her bed, holding her hand. Whenever I pick up the scent of bread or baked goods in the oven, it’s like her spirit pays me a loving visit. Your delightful post called up all these memories.
My girlfriend and I often visited my Irish grandmother, whose cozy apartment was in town. My grandmother would bake fresh soda bread or cornbread from scratch. Ah, the wonderful aromas from her oven. And we’d sit, all three of us, around her table and delight in the food and banter. Many years later grandmother died, in her late nineties, with me and my parents beside her bed, holding her hand. Whenever I pick up the scent of bread or baked goods in the oven, it’s like her spirit pays me a loving visit. Your delightful post called up all these memories.
Thank you for the thoughtful comment, John. I'm always startled by how a scent can trigger such a real, and such a visual, memory.
Beautiful. The Boy and the Egg.
Thank you very much, Sherman.
You write childhood Oh so well.
Thank you very much—I really appreciate the comment Trilety.