When I was a preschooler I badgered my big sister to read and reread The Gingerbread Man. It didn’t have a happy ending. A fox gobbled up the little cookie man, but I loved how he jumped off the cookie sheet and hot footed it out of the kitchen. It was that kitchen that has stayed in my memory. The wooden walls. The wooden salt box so European. The cast iron stove. The braided rug. Sure sounds like my grammas log house. I never saw the connection until this moment. But I do know that recalling that book and its illustrations has always comforted me. I feel a literal warmth, golden and cinnamon infused.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment