Please note: not a single picture of our mothers in this photo batch. I don’t know how I let that one slide… but there is a picture of Great Grandma Stokes, so that’s something.
Cinnamon raisin toast smells like my Grandma Horman. Well, not her exactly, but that smell transports me to some quiet early morning in the deep 1990’s, when it was just me and my Grandma having breakfast at her big kitchen table. My Grandma Stokes, on the other side, smells like browning butter. Whenever I’m making a roux at home, if I close my eyes I can see her standing by the oven in her slippers making pancakes or toffee or caramel (butter is the glorious beginning to most of her signature treats).
We’ve taken Jack to the motherland before, but on this particular trip I was extra aware of the tastes and sounds and smells that will become his childhood memories at Grandma’s. I don’t know what will remind him of his grandmothers, but he’ll have a lot of great options. It may be the taste of chocolate chip cookies, the way the desert smells when it rains, or the sound of the grand pianos. And I know it’s a silly thing to wonder about, but just the thought of it makes life feel fresh and sweet to me.