Whenever I smell burnt toast, I think of my mother. She liked her toast on the dark side and just the tiniest bit burnt.

It reminded her of when she was a happy little girl in Poland – before the Holocaust killed her family and forced her to work for the Nazis under an assumed identity. Before she was thrust into a strange new life in a strange new land. Funny how a simple smell can transport us back through time – and even so much sadness – to the warmest of memories.

Sometimes when I get caught up in blogging, I can forget about everything else, including that mom is no longer here. And I can even forget that piece of bread I put in the oven broiler to make toast. Until I smell that smell. Burnt toast. The warmest of memories. Hello mom!