Musings of an Aspiring Author and Poet
in
The smell of baked bread
Like perfume of memory
Grandma at the stove
O’ how joyful was childhood
When things were much simpler
Adulthood does dull
Senses fade to the background
Turning cynical
Happiness replaced by stress
O’ how soon we do forget
~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~
And to think, no bread baking machines. My mother made homemade bread for our family 2 X a day [from scratch of course] along with feeding between 20 – 35 hired men 3 meals each day. She had one paid worker in the kitchen (allowed to do dishes, etc). I often think I might smell homemade bread but I know it will never be like the bread my mother made. She was still making bread the same way when she passed of cardiac arrest at age 76. [It was probably the hand churned butter, don’t you think].
Perhaps it was, but just think of the memories we have now. Those days are sadly gone for the most part…even technology has messed with our bread, how sad. :)
Forget ourselves?
Oh yes, the days of our youth……;)
They are starting to seem so long ago although my wife would say that I act like I am 2 sometimes. :)
“Like perfume of memory..” loved this one. Could almost smell my grandma’s bread too…
Thank you Tiny, those were wonderful days. :)
This poem smells delicious!
Ellespeth
It tasted wonderful too, but alas unless I learn to bake it myself those days are gone.
You can a bread maker, you know. But there’s no grandma and the world’s changed, I know. Good old days – for every generation.
That is true, but there is nothing like handmade, homemade bread. :)
Yes, home. Homemade, of course! Lucky to have a home and what we make of it and in it.
Indeed! :)
Yes! You took me right there! Thank you.
I’m glad, thank you so much. :)
Dom DiFrancesco 
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