It gathered me up the moment I set foot in the house, the welcoming aroma of home made soup that had been simmering for hours.
Even before I closed the door the January cold was forgotten. As many images flashed through my mind as there were spices in the soup. A country kitchen with blazing hearth and a trestle table set with simmering bowls, an upholstered chair with a jumbled afghan in the seat, my grandmother conducting dinner preparations with a wooden spoon.
Giving myself over to the comforting embrace of special memories I forgot to shed my coat on the way to the dining room. I dropped it next to my chair, a jumble of fabric just like the pictured afghan. Then I dropped myself into a chair and inhaled the aromatic steam rising from the porcelain bowl. An aroma that promised a real time embrace after dinner.
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