These past few days have been all about apples. Tasty, sweet, juicy, delicious fruits - perfection.
For as long as I remember, I liked apples. Eaten straight from a tree, just cleaned with a cotton cloth, or - better still - just wiped against a T-shirt... Sun-kissed, still warm, and soft - the greatest childhood memories one could have.
The best cake I have ever tasted was the apple pie my grandma used to make. The smell of baked fruits, clear and strong, meant everything: hugs, cosy evenings with family, playing cards, talking, laughing - my definition of safe and comfortable.
Funny how that has influenced my life choices.
Kitchens with apples meant people living there were my kind of people, the ones I could feel safe and comfortable with.
We like people who like what we like. Simple.
Sometimes, apples turn out to be the only link, though. And that is not enough.
Still, if I see apples in someone's kitchen, that makes me smile. And the smell of apples is my definition of a safe and comfortable place. Like home.
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