What my childhood tasted like.

My childhood was spent in Jackson, Mississippi where everything was fried, candied, or smothered.

Food was the center of our day because it was family time. We always sat at the table together for dinner and had huge meals on the weekends with all 22 family members.

My mother and aunt worked at the same restaurant when I was in kindergarten.

My mother would pick me up and take me there until she got off work. I would sit at the counter twirling on a chrome stool, coloring, and eating ice by the cupful.

Mr. Primos was the owner, and everyone called him Pops. He would see me standing in front of the candy rack and let me have whatever I wanted. My mother, however, limited me to one, soPops would sneak my favorite to me when she wasn’t looking. This is probably why Snickers is my favorite candy bar today.

If anyone would ask me to pick the single best memory of food from my childhood, it would be french toast and bacon. My dad made french toast for the four of us every Sunday morning. He would serve it to us in bed to wake us up. Daddy would warm the syrup in little white decanters so it wouldn’t make the toast cold when we poured it on.

I think we all took this one act of love for granted. It was expected, and it wasn’t until he died that we realized how much we treasured those Sunday mornings. None of us could make french toast exactly like he did. We followed the same recipe . . . exactly. But it never tasted the same.It just wasn’t “his.”

I never really thought about it until now, but when my daddy became a grandfather I had my son call him Pops. At the time, I thought it was just because it sounded cute – much better than “Grandfather.” Now I realize that I named him after the other man in my past who showed his love with food.

The best thing about particular smells is that they can bring back memories so vivid you could swear it happened yesterday. You can hear dishes rattling and the voices of your family members. Even those that have long since gone. The smell of french toast and maple syrup bring my father back to me . . . if only for a moment.