Memories of childhood live in my heart and in my nose.

As you are — as we all are — I am a slave to smells of the past.

The smells are of soaked-in dirt and broken-in leather from the pocket of a baseball glove. The smells are the cloth cover of The Baptist Hymnal, the inside of an Impala, the early summer morning by a tobacco barn.

They keep on coming … smells of an elementary classroom, of a collie dog, of a Friday night ballgame, of a Wednesday night prayer meeting.

My nose is connected to my mind’s eye, and now and then a sniff of something will flip a page to one of the hundreds of pictures I carry in the scrapbook of my memory.

The strongest and sweetest smells from all those yesterdays still come from the kitchen. Our kitchen had the floor space of a throw rug and the cabinet space of a shoe box, but from that room my mother consistently turned out all sorts of wonderful culinary surprises. That beautiful young woman did things with groceries I wish I could do with words. The food she cooked smelled good, tasted better, and most of all it made you feel special, as if she’d done it all, made the extra effort, just for you.

Which she had.

My momma didn’t waste a lot of time on accessories like dessert or homemade breads or salads, although those things had their place. What momma did was concentrate on the basics, The Main Course, the heart and soul of the meal. She didn’t fool around. Had she’d been a pitcher, she would have thrown only fastballs.

Here it is: hit it. And good luck.

We’re talking pork roast, fried steak, (s)mashed potatoes, green beans, creamed corn, dead fried chicken, cornbread, hamburger steak, bacon, grits, sausage, spaghetti … She’d make the greatest sweet tea, and I’d drink glass after glass from a Bama Jelly jar.

And the gravy. You could always depend on the gravy.

Good luck getting good gravy on the streets these days …

I can smell the gravy now. She made it so it tasted the same every time, and I’d pour it over my plate and let it have its way with whatever food it fell on, and then I’d visually appreciate that for a second or two before shifting into high gear, elbows flying, silverware flashing,  jaws chomping.

All was right with the world.

Like most kitchens 50 years ago, that wonderful Carolina kitchen would be condemned by ’90s standards. Too much fat. Too many calories. Too much gluten, if there was such a thing back then. Many nutritionists argue that while pork tastes good, it’s seldom you see a skinny pig.

I hate logic.

So, fat grams or not, for years I have ordered the same meals I grew up on and have eaten them whenever I’ve gone to momma’s, which is often but not nearly as often as I’d like. She has left the window of culinary opportunity wide open. Which is why it shocked me when, on an ordinary eating day, my own personal mom did something strange.

She didn’t ask me what I wanted for dinner when I’m to visit in a couple of weeks. Instead, she said she was cooking, (I’m going to have trouble even writing this), she said she was cooking … shrimp and rice, and making, (mercy), spinach salad.

She said that.

Of all people, my momma has gone fat-free.

Worried and a little hungry, I ask you: Will the children of this generation have the same taste and smell for childhood I had?

For their sakes, I hope so.

Because sometimes, you’ve gotta stop and smell the gravy.

Contact Teddy at teddy@latech.edu