I'm not a big breakfast eater. Yes, I know, breakfast is the most important meal of the day, blah, blah, blah. I actually buy into that propaganda about twice a week. This morning was one of the twice. This morning I made an apple butter sandwich to go with my coffee.
Apple butter is a simple indulgence, a smooth, deep brown spread made from stewed apples and seasoned with cinnamon. Slathered between two slices of bread, with a swipe of butter and it is a meal fit for a king. I held the sandwich in front of my face and closed my eyes, breathing in the fragrant aroma. I was instantly transported to a time long ago.
Groton, Connecticut, 1968ish. It was autumn, the days were long and warm. The air smelled of freshly mowed grass and bayberries. In the distance the repetitive crackle of an ice cream truck lured children from all directions, but not me. I had an apple-butter sandwich clutched in my hands, the only clean surface on my almost 8 year old body following the required hand washing before acquisition of food. I held the sandwich in front of my face and closed my eyes, breathing in the fragrant aroma and I was instantly transported to a time not so long ago.
Scotland, 1964ish. It was a cool, crisp autumn day. The smell of smoke from every chimney in the neighborhood mingled with a faint hint of salt drifting up from the river hung in the air. The monotonous cawing of hundreds of sea gulls filled the atmosphere with almost a festive mood, but I was oblivious to anything but the two slices of thick bread separated only by a generous slathering of smooth, dark, spicy apple butter and creamy, home churned butter.
And I was instantly transported to another time, another place. It was autumn~
8 years ago