The moment I scooped a teaspoon of nutmeg this morning it happened.
It was the catalyst that triggered a series of pictures in my mind, slowly paging in procession like a hand-held flip book:
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sitting on my brother's bedroom floor (off of which there was a small closet/attic) pulling item after item from the costume box, trying to decide what to be for Halloween
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my brown velour skirt that I wore at twelve years old (with a groovy winter-white polyester blouse) to my grandparents house for Thanksgiving
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conspiring with my sister in Grandma's kitchen, sheepishly untwisting cello wrappers from whiskey sour hard candies, and wondering how many we could eat before feeling drunk,
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Grandma's silver tiered cookie tray atop her cotton lace table cloth, neatly arranged with confectioners sugar snowballs, twisty bow knots, and nutty/raisin pinwheels,
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my green plaid kilt (how old was I then???)
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another dark morning stumbling downstairs to a piney tree full of fat colored lights, Mom arriving sleepily in her green velour bathrobe ...
Lots of velour in the 70s, you know.
The season is near, believe it or not. The rainy morning pumpkin muffins tell me so.
All of that from the twist of a cap.
Regular baking is something relatively new for me, but it's just that -- the flood of vivid memories associated with the scents of the kitchen -- contributing to my growing love for what has really been family tradition all along.