We got snow this weekend! Inches of it. The good kind too – big, fat flakes that crunch beneath booted feet. The perfect kind of snow to make snowmen and snowballs. The kind that cloaks the ground in a thick and fluffy blanket and settles a hush around everything, even a bustling downtown.
It came from the kind of storm they predicted all week. The kind that makes the sky an icy, steely gray and leaves a smell lingering in the air. The smell of snow. Do you know the smell I’m talking about? I hope you do.
That smell transports me back home. I get a whiff of snow on the air and whoosh I’m back in Wisconsin, with a cold nose and gloved fingers. There are a handful of smells that do that to me. That take me back to a different time or a different place.
Pesto is one of those smells. The strong scent of basil tinged with garlic and Parmesan. It reminds me of the restaurant I worked at all through high school and college. In the mornings, they’d prep big batches of it, the food processor whirring and smell the fresh, sweet herb all around. In the evenings, I’d pilfer small containers of it from the walk-in. Stealing it away to put it on anything and everything – pasta, toast, scrambled eggs.