A summer breeze filled with a sweet hint of honeysuckle, simmering spaghetti sauce on the stove, chlorine-soaked swimsuits, fresh baked bread--scents that take me back in time ….
Last week, my girlfriend invited me over for dessert and coffee. As I stepped inside her home, I was greeted by the sweet aroma of apple pie. Immediately, the smell took me back to the wonderful summer I spent with my grandparents when I was a child.
Nearly every Saturday evening after supper, Mamaw would make a homemade pie crust, while Papaw and I picked apples from the tree in the backyard. We would sit in the rocking chairs on the porch and cut the sun-warmed fruit into slices, tossing the peels and cores into the scrap pail. They were tart, chartreuse-colored apples, the best kind for pie; just thinking about them makes my mouth water. We usually finished our task before the street lights came on, but we waited until we saw the evening’s first fireflies before taking the apples to the kitchen.
Mamaw prepared the filling while Papaw and I buried the contents of the scrap pail in the garden. He explained to me that if we treated the soil to a nice meal every now and then, it would reward us with tastier vegetables. I didn’t question him, because Mamaw’s corn, turnip greens and potatoes couldn’t be beat.
Once the scraps were buried, I rushed inside to take my bath. The sweet fruity smell coaxed me to bathe quickly and towel-dry my hair, so I could hurry back downstairs for our Saturday night ritual. Mamaw sliced the steamy pie and Papaw poured three glasses of sweet milk. Snuggled together on the couch, we tuned the TV to CBS and watched the Carol Burnett Show together. The ten o’clock hour was filled with laughter, love and the cinnamony smell of hot apple pie. The memories of this delightful treat with Mamaw and Papaw always make me smile.
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