My dear brother is picking up my dear mother. For those of you have not met her, you might not realize that this is no mean feat.
Walking into mom's apartment in Brooklyn (and for many years, just walking into the apartment building itself), was to walk into scent heaven.....chicken soup, tsimmes (a sweet potato and carrot concoction), opening up a bakery box and just smelling the black & white cookies, and the honey dripping off the taiglach (sort of a Jewish croquembouche, but much heavier....), maybe the scent of brisket (or as my mother always called it "top of the rib," meaning the first cut), or a roasting chicken. And her stuffed cabbage, which I continue to try to replicate. Or even the scent of deep-fried mandelen, which were one of the few things that Mom made from scratch. (Mandelen are hard to describe, but I guess the closest thing that would describe them would be "dumpling," except that they were the size of filberts -- hazelnuts in non-Jewish households -- and they were deep fried. Matzo balls might also be served for Rosh Hashanah, but they were more of a Passover thing, whereas my mother's mandelen could only be served at Rosh Hashanah, since they were chometzdik.)
And there were other scents as well....the smell of the ancient Scrabble set we would use after services (and sometimes long into the night); the cedar scent of the drawer where our tallesim and yarmulkes were kept. The scent of my mother's perfume as she dressed for services. The scent of Oz furniture polish (no offense, Tom thereof, but that was the name of the cream polish that was used on the living room furniture). The scent of flowers that her sons would invariably bring her.
