The 3×5 card was stained, the words smudged across it’s face, a gritty flour coating covered every inch.
My grandmother’s recipe for rolls.
I carefully filled my kitchen aid with the necessary ingredients. Yeast, flour, sugar combined under a churning metal arm and my mind started to slip back to a time where I stood shorter at the kitchen counter.
I remember her aged hands, translucent skin over delicate bones pulling the heavy dough from the bowl. Pulling the rolling pin back and forth flattening the form to exactly the perfect thickness to sink the cookie cutters into
Every holiday my mother or grandmother would make our rolls, creamy and gooey on the inside and crispy and buttery on the outside. The smell of rising rolls would fill every corner of the house, and the delectable scent that came when the rolls were finished pulled the family to the table like a hook in our noses.
For Thanksgiving this year I pulled out my tattered recipe card and slowly put the dough together.
Each scoop of flour, scrunch of dough between fingers and view of the carefully covered rows of rising rolls took me home to my grandmother’s kitchen.
400 miles, dozens of years between the little girl in the kitchen with her grandmother and the woman alone with her Kitchen-aid, but as the smell waifed up to my nose I was suddenly a child in her kitchen again.
I was home.
It is amazing to me that there are scent, songs, and textures that pull us from the present moment into a memory. Eyes closed and heart opened I stopped in that memory taking in the warmth and love in that room with grandma.
Grinning, I opened my eyes and finished the rolls.