In memories, every corner, every house, every building has its own scent: one’s childhood home, the treehouse, the schoolhouse, the church, the first house of one’s own.
I creep furtively into the pantry. The small window by the ceiling lets in a lone, wan beam of light from the kitchen. I am immediately surrounded by the scent of herbs, fruit and forbidden sweets.
Like Proust’s madeleine, or Grandmother’s bedchamber, so it is in our little pantry.

Günther Förg