When I was a kid I couldn’t wait to travel “over the hills and through the woods” to my Grandmother’s house. Unfortunately, our journey was over slushy freeways in wind chills below zero, to Grandma’s brick bungalow in Chicago.
I’d enter her house hoping for the scent of fresh-baked gingerbread cookies. But my grandmother’s kitchen was more likely to smell of blood sausage and sauerkraut than my sugar-coated fantasies! As for my other grandmother who hailed from Sweden – her specialties were pickled herring and fruitcake.