Create a custom theme
0
I had to write a short story for class today, involving a smell that gives you a childhood memory. Well, it was obvious what mine was going to be :)
Quote
Molasses and olive oil infused with butter and sugar, a light glaze of honey and sprinkles of sesame seeds combine to create the rich, warm smell of freshly baked bread; or Simit, as I knew it. Simit was exclusive to sun. Simit meant breakfast on the balcony, then a nine o'clock trip to the beach, paddling with jellyfish on the safer shores. Sun beaming down at 27c, waves crashing around ankles, sandgrains dusting the palms of hands. It would be a crisp, breezy evening though.
In April, the duvet felt heavy and compressing in the humidity of inner city sunrise. It was that time of day when I would inexplicably wake up, parched, after only a few hours' sleep, seemingly for no reason. But I knew - amidst the semi-conscious brain fog - that the smell of Simit had lured me out of my dreams of ocean and frozen rain.
Over the years, six am in late Spring had never changed. The cries of the Simit boy - whose real name I'd never been told - would drift through my open window with the dusty air as he made his way up the streets from the valley.
There he was now, his calls floating across from the opposite pavement. 'Simit var!' he shouted. 'Taze simit!'
On cue, I struggled to free myself from the tangle of duvet and bare legs, scrambling out of bed and over to the dressing table. I tugged a beach dress over my head, dropping it down over my underwear, since it was too hot to sleep in pyjamas, and grabbed ten lira in coins.
I rushed to the window and leaned out, catching the back of the Simit boy as he passed.
'Afedersiniz,' I called to him. 'Simit istedim!'
On my request, he came to a halt and and span round to face me, the tray wobbling precariously on the top of his head. As he hurried onto the grass and over to my window, he lifted the tray down and held it out to me. It was stacked with various pastries which I would never think to eat so early in the day, and Simit, my daily breakfast item, adorned with chunks of feta cheese, dollops of raspberry jam and small glasses of Çay.
I passed over the ten lira and snatched up a napkin, two pieces of Simit and one glass of Çay. I drank the tea immediately, the piping hot liquid refreshing. As I inhaled the nutty scent of bread, the Simit boy handed me my change.
I thanked him and turned away from the window, back into my shadowy room. As I bit into the crumbly crust to the fluffy center, I heared his rousing 'Simit' crows further up the street. Like Pavlov's dog, although I'd already bought the bread, I felt an urge to call him back and buy it again.
In April, the duvet felt heavy and compressing in the humidity of inner city sunrise. It was that time of day when I would inexplicably wake up, parched, after only a few hours' sleep, seemingly for no reason. But I knew - amidst the semi-conscious brain fog - that the smell of Simit had lured me out of my dreams of ocean and frozen rain.
Over the years, six am in late Spring had never changed. The cries of the Simit boy - whose real name I'd never been told - would drift through my open window with the dusty air as he made his way up the streets from the valley.
There he was now, his calls floating across from the opposite pavement. 'Simit var!' he shouted. 'Taze simit!'
On cue, I struggled to free myself from the tangle of duvet and bare legs, scrambling out of bed and over to the dressing table. I tugged a beach dress over my head, dropping it down over my underwear, since it was too hot to sleep in pyjamas, and grabbed ten lira in coins.
I rushed to the window and leaned out, catching the back of the Simit boy as he passed.
'Afedersiniz,' I called to him. 'Simit istedim!'
On my request, he came to a halt and and span round to face me, the tray wobbling precariously on the top of his head. As he hurried onto the grass and over to my window, he lifted the tray down and held it out to me. It was stacked with various pastries which I would never think to eat so early in the day, and Simit, my daily breakfast item, adorned with chunks of feta cheese, dollops of raspberry jam and small glasses of Çay.
I passed over the ten lira and snatched up a napkin, two pieces of Simit and one glass of Çay. I drank the tea immediately, the piping hot liquid refreshing. As I inhaled the nutty scent of bread, the Simit boy handed me my change.
I thanked him and turned away from the window, back into my shadowy room. As I bit into the crumbly crust to the fluffy center, I heared his rousing 'Simit' crows further up the street. Like Pavlov's dog, although I'd already bought the bread, I felt an urge to call him back and buy it again.
xx
