Memories of those seven magical years we spent growing up at 110 Flamingo Street can break through the fog of time in my mind at any moment.
What pulls childhood memories up from the deep recess of subconscious? Our parents said they are connected to our five senses: sight, hearing, touch, taste, and smell — with smell being the strongest trigger of them all.
My stories from childhood usually come from one or two of these senses, but this story is unique because it uses all five. Usually, it’s something The Wife says that nudges a memory from my childhood to make the climb from my subconscious up into conscious thought, but not this time. It wasn’t what she said, but what she did.
Smell: As I was growing up, I wouldn’t have been able to tell which memory of my dad would make me feel good on the inside and bring a smile to my face each time as I remembered as an adult.
Now as I look back, it’s oh so obvious: the smell of bacon being cooked. Each Sunday morning, the smell of bacon frying pulled us from the deep sleep we were still in, beckoning us kids to the table. Dad was in the kitchen cooking us his special Sunday go-to-meeting breakfast that only he could cook.
After half the bacon was fried, Dad added some of the leftover grease to the mixture of flour, eggs, lard, butter, and buttermilk that would soon become cat head biscuits.
Touch: With biscuits in the oven, Dad had us cut and squeeze oranges into a large pitcher, then turned his attention back to the grits.
Good grits are cooked low and slow, so they were started before any of us kids had gotten up. Lumpy grits were not allowed in our house, so they needed to be stirred, stirred, and stirred some more. Stirring was our job, but first, Dad added just a little of that leftover bacon grease to the mixture.
We also cracked a dozen or so eggs into a bowl, mixing them as fast as we could while Dad added just the right amount of cheese, milk, and a little pepper. He dumped the yellow mixture into the hot bacon skillet, making sure to scrape the sides so bits of bacon would be in the egg mixture.
His scrambled eggs are still the best I’ve ever tasted, but it was the bacon we all fought over — and got burnt by. While we mixed and stirred, Dad cooked the second half of the bacon right next to us.
Looking back, I think I remember him smiling just a little whenever the bacon popped and some of the hot grease splattered out of his pan and landed on one of us. Whenever I cook bacon now and get a hot pop on my skin, I smile and think about him. Guess it was rather funny after all.
Hearing: The flurry of activity in Dad’s kitchen was loud and sometimes chaotic. While we retrieved plates, silverware, and glasses to set the table, he kept telling us to stop slamming the drawers and cabinet doors. He repeated himself each time one of us checked on the biscuits and slammed the oven door. Finally, when the wind-up timer sounded, we knew it would only be minutes before all our “helping” would pay off.
Sight and taste: Very few of my childhood memories are more visceral than watching Dad set down in front of us kids a pitcher of fresh squeezed orange juice, a huge platter of cat head biscuits, the bowl full of scrambled eggs, the bubbling pot of grits, and trays of bacon — lots and lots of crisp bacon.
I can remember to this very day our many arms reaching (and fighting) over that breakfast spread. With our plates full, Dad asked one of us to say the blessing and then the eating began. At that time, the crescendo of all five senses came together and made Dad’s special Sunday morning breakfast so memorable.
Yesterday, The Wife made waffles and bacon. Over breakfast, I thanked her for the memory and said how the smell of bacon cooking reminds me of Flamingo, and that’s what I was going to write about this week.
That was going to be the end of this story … until that afternoon when I picked up our granddaughters from school. When we got home, we went to the basement to retrieve some school supplies. While walking down the steps, both girls said the same thing, “We just love how the basement smells.” They paused halfway down and took a big comforting breath.
he Wife and I lived in our basement for almost six years while the Girly Girls and their mom lived upstairs. They moved out last year and got their own home, but we still see them all the time.
I suddenly realized that the smell of our basement is their bacon. It brings back their childhood memories of comfort and home … without any pain from popping hot grease.
[Rick Ryckeley has been writing his stories for The Citizen since 2001.]
