Last night I quickly made dinner, changed into my gym clothes, and rushed out the door to my weekly boot camp fit group. As I got into my car, I caught a whiff of roasted garlic emanating from my hair. While I do love the taste, I try to avoid wearing the smell – it’s not like I’m trying to repel vampires, or anything.
Anyway, the aroma instantly surfaced a memory of my older cousin telling me how she always had to put her coat outside on Thursdays, when her grandparents made sauce.
Almost 20 years later, I would give anything to walk into their house and be greeted by whatever was cooking or baking in the kitchen. Sometimes you don’t realize these little things until it’s too late.
A flood of memories came to me:
Eating crisp iceberg lettuce salads with salty black olives and tangy Italian dressing.
Chomping on chilled Twix bars in the sticky summer heat.
Rolling out dough for chrusciki for a 6th grade heritage project on Poland.
Feasting on savory mashed turnips for Thanksgiving dinner.
Selling sour cherry lemonade and stale raisins to unfortunate passersby.
Begging for fried Ramen noodles for every meal. (If you haven’t tried them, you haven’t lived.)
Drinking thick and creamy chocolate milk.
Playing restaurant and ice cream parlor from the sliding porch window.
Eating big, pink, sugary rabbit peeps in the back seat of the Blazer.
The list goes on and on.
My childhood revolved around food. And that is what made it memorable.