The sweet and heady fragrance of vanilla essence.
A mound of tutti-frutti.
Some flour and few eggs.
Bright spoons and a measuring jar.
Even brighter face of my 11-year-old.
It’s the weekend.
Time to bond over some baking.
As we whisk and stir, she shares her school news. At 11 the world is not so simple as when you are a single digit old. There is so much buzzing in the head. School, studies, peer opinion, her own queries. The kitchen is a melting pot of various sounds, strangely soothing. She chats, I hmm. There is the soft whoosh of the eggs and flour being stirred. The fan whirls above. It’s our own little world.
No matter how many fancy restaurants one has eaten in, comfort comes from the simple foods. We are making a fruitcake. One of our favorites. A simple teacake. But the aroma is heavenly. Infuses the whole house.
My son comes home from a class and throws his head back to inhale the welcoming scent. Next comes the husband. And then before we know it, there are only a few crumbs left on the plate.