I remember walking through Grandma’s kitchen recently, seeing the very same Tupperware cookie jar on the counter, then same smokey grey classes in her cupboards and even the same white dishes with the ivy pattern around the edges. She got a new stove and the drawer I used to play in as a toddler has been moved to make way for a dishwasher. But the distinct click of cabinets as they open and close – fixtures that they just don’t seem to make anymore, brings me back to days spent making cinnamon rolls out of leftover pie crusts.
The funny thing is, it’s not just Grandma’s kitchen that holds memories for me. The linen closet has that fresh laundry smell tinged with a hint of perfumed powder. I recall getting stuffed onto the third shelf up and locked in there as a practical joke by my older cousins. It was terrifying and thrilling at the same time.
Sometimes, the rooms themselves transport me to another time and place. Other times it’s a familiar object that becomes my vehicle. Things I know I’ll find like a box of Tootsie Pops in a bedside drawer or iced tea in the fridge. As a kid, I found familiar to be B-O-R-I-N-G, but as an adult I think about the testament these traditions, rituals or habits represent. Traditions that are passed from one generation to the next, shared with love and built with affection.