jam tarts

Sometimes a certain smell or sound can bring back a memory. That happens for me every time I sprinkle flour on the counter and start rolling out the dough for Sunday morning brunch. With every roll of my pin, I remember our Saturday morning tradition. The sun would come up over the horizon and barely peek into the lace-rimmed curtains when my Nan would be up, puttering around in her spacious farmhouse kitchen. I would usually wake up about the time that the coffee started filtering down into the pot, and find my way down the stairs into the room lit with musky morning light. Soft tinkering noises and cabinets creaking open and closed were the only sounds heard for the first few minutes. Nan had to set out her ingredients, and I had to wash the sleepies away with a glass of milk before any substantial conversation could take place. Soon enough though, all would be ready, and I would say “Good morning, Nan” as I walked from my chair to her side, grabbing the recipe card off the refrigerator...

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Sarah Alford