Meat. Flour. Fry. Meat. Flower. Fry. It was a process I knew how to do before I could spell my name. Probably the most comforting smell I can think of is the smell of my grandma’s (and my mum’s) meatballs. Dripping oil and deliciousness, with a promise of a rise in your blood pressure, they weren’t the healthiest things I ever ate but they were heaven on earth. Anytime I smell Haitian Meatballs It always brings me back to when I was in Elmentary school. After a hard day of times tables and long division I’d get home and I’d stand behind the door and I could smell the mouthwatering meatballs and I knew: everything is okay. Everything is perfect. That is the smell that gives me a feel of what it is like to be young, innocent and happy.