Growing up in the Bronx, my friends were of many different ethnicities and cultures. But the one thing we had in common was food. When our mothers called us upstairs for dinner, or supper as it was called, the scents of food in the hallways of the building melded into a wonderful sensory experience.
My father loved pickles. When the jar in the fridge was empty, there were always a couple more waiting in the basement pantry. Once, after a day of running errands, I came home to find the pungent tang of pickle juice filling the rooms, and my dad unperturbedly drinking a cup of coffee.