the smell of cinnamon baking and I am back, instantly, in a kitchen in connecticut, with a butcher block table made by my dad and grandpa
with a lip cut to fit the clamp of the bread mixer, a height just for kneading, and a shelf underneath for the milk cans
I am back to hot loaves of bread, fresh from the oven
slathered in homemade butter
I am back in a moment of innocent nowness, of comfort and nourishment, of something so much bigger
I can still see out that front window from my place by the table where the loaves were cooling under a towel, and the insides were ragged since we never waited long enough to cut into them…
that front window frames a garden with a well pump, and behind it a green field, a brown cow with white horns and knock knees staked out, grazing…
