It’s wonderful how smells can transport us to moments from the past. Perhaps it’s the aroma of a particular food that conjures up the memory … though not always. A few months ago I bought a new facial cleanser: it’s a Nivea product which I chose because it looked like it would meet my needs for a modest outlay. When I opened it up and squeezed a little onto my fingers the first night, I was instantly back in my Nanna’s bedroom, standing in front of the dressing-table mirror, smoothing her cool, white Nivea Creme onto my five or six year old skin and relishing a chance to dabble in the grown-up world. The flat, dark blue tin held more than a modicum of excitement along with the thick white crème. Even more exciting was being allowed to peel back the foil cover beneath the lid of a new tin. It seemed to hold the promise of far more than a mere cold cream might warrant (so named for the cooling effect it has on the skin, apparently). Each time I use my current product, I’m amazed that it smells exactly the same as the Nivea Creme my Nanna used, half a century ago. On the back of this memory ride a whole raft of other joyful recollections.

Those happy days with Nanna would often find me draped in her soft and heavy fur coat which lived in the dark, cavernous wardrobe in a corner of her room. I’m not sure if it was real fur but back in the early 1960s it’s quite possible it was. It smelt like it might have been, in its faintly musty, softly luxurious way and it had an air of being slightly forbidden. On my Nanna it kissed her legs just beneath the knee but on me it was full length and left a fur train swishing behind me; the satiny lining was extravagantly smooth and cool on my skin. Oh, the happy hours I spent parading before the mirror in that coat, pretending to be all manner of important and mysterious people! And when I’d had enough of dressing up and moisturising, I loved nothing better than to collapse with a book into the deep, sagging depths of my grandparents’ double bed. The wilting mattress must have been a challenge to them each night as they rolled into an ungracious heap in the middle of the bed but to me it represented all that was safe and soft.

My Grandad was an accomplished green thumb and I spent many happy hours pottering with him in his beloved rose garden, and in the modest greenhouse he built to capture

Grandad’s beloved greenhouse

enough warmth for a full tomato-growing season in the cool, damp climes of northern England. A paraffin heater maintained the temperature so he could plant seeds each year before the frosts outside had passed; this gave him the head start he needed and allowed the delicious red fruits to mature before next year’s cold descended. When I began growing tomatoes as an adult, my Grandad’s words floated back to me across the years, unknowingly and effortlessly absorbed as I shared that long ago gardening time with him. Pinching out the laterals, checking for bugs, carefully tying the plants up to support them … even today it’s as if he’s beside me, guiding me when I tend my own tomatoes. And oh! The smell of those sweet, ripe tomatoes defies description. A basket of rubicund treasure brought from the greenhouse to the kitchen translated into a delicious summer salad for lunch. Even more than the smell of the fruit, the smell of a crushed tomato leaf evokes more memories in a moment than any number of photos can! I wonder if my love of roses is also pinned to those lovely recollections; perhaps it’s the reason I’ve planted roses almost everywhere I’ve lived.

Six year old me, preparing to plant seeds with Grandad ❤

Although I don’t recall that Grandad grew them, I also associate the smell of sliced cucumbers with those summer days of my childhood. Nanna used to slice up some cucumbers and some onions and combine them with a simple mixture of water and vinegar (malt vinegar, I think) to make a type of fresh pickle. Even today as I prepare some of my

Cucumbers in Garlic Mustard Vinegar

own pickles, the smell of cucumbers says “summertime” to me. Sunday lunch at my grandparents’ home was a regular event for Mum, Dad, my two younger brothers and me. It was most often a roast and in summer we would stay on in the endless twilight to eat a “tea” of leftover cold roast meat with salad … and pickled cucumber… and home grown tomatoes. It was a splendid meal for all its simplicity (or is that because of its simplicity?) To finish off, Nanna would open a tin of fruit – pear halves, peach slices or two fruits, usually – and serve them in fancy cut-glass dishes, topped with a swirl of evaporated milk. My Nanna’s little indulgence was to enjoy this sweet treat with a slice of buttered white bread!

Speaking of bread, one of my earliest experiences of brown bread was Hovis wholemeal, which my Grandad consumed in generous measure. Coming from a family who had long battled excess weight and coronary problems, Grandad was told by his doctor at one point that he needed to lose weight and eat more fibre. The good doctor suggested he stop eating white bread and instead begin a routine of “two slices of Hovis a day”. Grandad (either deliberately or not) didn’t hear the word “slices” and on arriving home instructed Nanna to get the local shop to reserve two loaves of Hovis a day, which he happily devoured for the rest of his life. He lived to the ripe old age of 80 – not a bad innings for someone born in 1917, with all the limitations and hardships that era brought. I remember the great treat of sharing Hovis bacon sandwiches with him for breakfast, though I’m not sure the doctor intended bacon to be a regular feature of Grandad’s diet! There’s been a bread machine in our house since 1998 (a series of them, that is) and I’ve made almost all our bread since then. South Australian flour mill Laucke make a number of ready-to-bake bread mixes, including a golden wholemeal which reminds me of Hovis – the smell and taste take me back to those contraband breakfasts of my childhood.

Homemade golden wholemeal loaf

I love the power of smells and I’m deeply grateful to my grandparents for giving me so much when I was young. Their home was modest but comfortable, their activities homely but happy; what they gave me was not material goods but unlimited access to their time, attention and love. Just as it should be with grandparents ❤

(Nivea Creme tin from Google images)