Stories

I found an old photo recently, little me, tongue out, queen cakes cooling on the rack, a drawing somewhere off to the side. That kitchen table, my Mammy's recipe, the smell of something buttery in the oven. Some things never change. Here's the bake that started it all.

There's a smell that hits you before you even get through the door — warm, yeasty, unmistakably homemade. My mother's brown bread is the recipe that started it all for me. Except it's not really a recipe. It never has been.