We always talk about the taste and smells of cooking. One of my fondest memories was visiting my mother's parents in southern Indiana for Christmas or Thanksgiving. My grandparents lived in a two-story farmhouse on HW41. We slept upstairs, and you climbed those spooky enclosed stairwells to get to bed. It always seemed cold up there because the door at the bottom of the staircase was closed at night.

Come morning it always felt great to just lie there in that feather bed, feel that heat coming up that staircase after they opened the door, and just listen to the sounds of my grandmother and mother talking and making breakfast.

I got an entirely different reaction from my kids when they were growing up. They would complain about me getting up early and making too much noise making my breakfast; even complaining about my spoon hitting my cereal bowl while I was eating.

Hard to know what their fond memories will be, but me making breakfast won't be one of them.

I know exactly what you mean. My memories as a boy of Christmas's spent at my grandparents home out in the country in Ohio w/ the snow on the ground + a neighbor to take me pheasant hunting + of course the coming in from the cold to be hit with all those great smells. Those are memories that I save for special times with myself.I can share the words but not the feeling.

My grandparents had a similar house. The only heat was an oil-fired space heater in the kitchen. We used to pile my grandparents old wool coats on top of the bed to add warmth on cold winter nights.

I still prefer sleeping with the house temp low and a heavy comforter or two on me.

Whenever I had a cold coming on my grandpa would signal me to the basement stairs (same spooky setup, with a dirt floor basement) and he’d give me a 1/2 shot of cherry whiskey, then shoo me off to bed.

NICE Grandpa. Mine never gave me a shot of hooch! Good Church going man.I was left to find that on my own.Although he did take me on rounds of the
Root Beer parlors that were prevalent in the early 50's.Oh yeah + the ice cream shops.I can still remember the 2 of us being stuffed with banana splits.My memories are sweet.

I recall waking up very early on the morning of the opening of the deer hunt to the sounds of bacon and eggs crackling in the frying pan and that sweet aroma of bacon wafting upstairs into the bedroom, as my dad and grandpa quietly talked downstairs.

I was in awe watching my grandmother make fried chicken, particularly the part where she would go out in the yard with that rod with the hook on the end, catch a hen, wring its neck, hang and bleed it. I never fully trusted that old woman after that. (I knew, like that poor hen, I couldn't outrun her.)

I stayed away from her cellar on the enclosed back porch too. The one that had the doorway flat on the floor with the rope through the pulley and the big rock counter-weight to help lift the door. It looked like a grave when the door was open. I damn sure wasn't going down there.

Very disappointed when I grew-up and discovered that you can hardly find a wishbone in a plate of fried chicken anymore. Yeah, breasts and drumsticks are fine, but a WISHBONE. That was the Hope Diamond of fried chicken.

That was about the only time I would let others go first. Come Sunday dinner, like a panther, I would crouch in my seat waiting for the thighs, breasts, wings to be taken from the pile; even let the platter pass me the first time, if I felt lucky. Because I knew, the next time around, the wishbone might be exposed and I could claim it...like winning the Powerball. YEAH, BABY! Come to papa.

When we used to have chickens,I built sheet metal cones (ala megaphone) w/ a built in hook. We would grab the chichen,fold her wings back + drop into the cone.The head + neck extended,the body encased + could'nt move. Thus when the ax fell you just hung up the bird by the hook + let her bleed out + with no thrashing about to bruise the meat.

My father's education included twisting the necks of chickens to kill them. The day came when he was supposed to kill the first turkey He twisted and twisted but nothing happened !

Years ago when we had all the chickens + ducks we also had some braums turkeys,the big variety. One of our out buildings was on pier + beam + I installed insulation under the floor + stapled chicken wire to keep it from getting torn out.One night we had a major thunderstorm + the turkeys sought refuge under the building. Then a thunder clap went off + they panicked;thrust theirs heads up (into the chicken wire) + took off at full speed.Decapitated the lot.in the morning we were met with a yard full of dead,headless,wet turkeys.No going to work on the job today,too busy cleaning + smoking turkeys.All the friends + relatives got their smoked turkey sooner than expected.