No two people make the same kind of bread as each loaf has a unique personality that it takes on from its creator. Memories of a taste then remain mere touchstones that we aspire to recreate
Words by Flora Refosco; Art by Maya Pillai
There is a kind of happiness I feel sometimes. I know the precise sensation of it, but I don’t think I can describe it right.
I name it “feeling bodily happy” because it is not a satisfaction that lives in the dimension of ideas. It makes my muscles feel comfortable, my lungs breath fully, my face becomes rosy and my circulation calms down. For a few moments, nothing is amiss.
To bask in the winter sun brings that, as do Sunday lunches. So do early morning bus rides to still unknown towns. Or attending a concert of my favorite band. And… the smell of baking bread. From the things that evoke good feelings before my brain gets the chance to elaborate it into words, a bread-scented house is the easiest one to find.
When we were little and my grandmother came to take care of us, all kinds of everyday delicacies would emerge out of the kitchen. But the bread she would make for the week remain imprinted in my memory in a special way.
