I’m sure there isn’t any aroma quite like this fresh baked bread straight into a brown paper bag. The the drive home surrounded by it.

But there is so much more in that bag, the nostalgia is even more overwhelming.

When we were growing up my mother made a pot of sauce every Thursday. I don’t remember how, I don’t remember the smell of it or the pot it was made in.

What I do remember is my father walking in the back door with this bag of bread. I remember putting my face in it to catch the aroma. I remember pulling the soft inside out so the meatballs fit just perfectly. I remember laying that soft inside in the pot on top of the sauce.

This bread is from a tiny little bakery in a tiny little town made by a lone baker. It was once a full service bakery in another part of town but that baker has long ago passed on.