… stop in my tracks. There are so many smells that take me back to where I was, to a place back in the memory of my life.
I can still smell my mother’s soup, just the same as her mother’s soup, what I would give to figure out that recipe.
For awhile my brother and I had this thing about the desserts of our Sunday lunches and dinners at our grandparents. I explored and tried to recreate a few, they were a good try but not quite there. I know somewhere in amongst the spare room flotsam and jetsam is a recipe book that may just unfold a few of them, the apple sponge at least. Or is that memory of a recipe book from my other grandmother?
The shortbread cooking at this time of year, for Christmas, that smell makes me smile … it is an imagined memory knowing my mother made this recipe and my grandmother made this recipe. That makes my heart sing.
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