Isn’t it amazing, the way that the waft of an aroma transports the mind to another time and place?
Whenever I catch a whiff of baking spices , add a little rum, and a low humming song and I am back in my small bedroom listening to the clatter of pots and pans , experiencing a warm glow because I know that my mama is baking and even as I write this and remember I find myself unconsciously smiling as I can taste the cake on the tip of my tongue.
My parents cultivated a love of food in their family.
Mama would bake often and at special times she would wrap my little sister and I in tea towel pinnies, and pop us in a corner with fresh dough and our imaginations.
The resulting shapes were formed and reformed during a happy half and hour or so.
Mama would pop them in the oven and we would eagerly wait for them to bake
They did not remain sufficiently long enough on the cooling tray to be at the right temperature that mama had decided that they would be safe enough for us to eat.
Baking in the home has always been a pleasure because of its association with happy memories.
As to the tastes of my efforts-well you would have to ask the recipients of my labours !
But, nowadays I find myself baking increasingly more often as a means of lightening my mood, as an opportunity to give (hopefully pleasure)and it stops me reaching for the peanut butter jar.