I love the smell of butter, sugar, and cinnamon; it’s so aromatic and appealing to the nose that I could not resist it. It brings me back to the time when I used to sit at the kitchen counter with my mother preparing Rusks at the age of 6. The words that I remember her saying are, “Want to help stir?” and I jumped up to help, grabbing the huge wooden spoon, feeling so mature to be able to do such a thing. We would knead the dough, although thick and sticky, and my nanny would listen to me recount my day at school. I clearly remember my mother’s hands with ugly wrinkles but beautiful muscles that would gently knead the dough. On the occasion we could share a bowl of cereal, she would allow me to shower the cinnamon sugar onto it, however much I wished. Finally, we’d divide the logs of dough into slabs—my clumsy portions with hers in neat circles—and place them on the baking trays. Into the hot oven, they would go, making the kitchen warm and smell so good.

We would take the soft and delicious rusks and soak them in tea and coffee as needed. They were positively perfect; there was a definite crispness on the outside as well as a tiny little tenderness on the inside. Moreish,’ my mum would say that with her Irish twang, meaning it was so delicious, one could never have enough. The next morning she would prepare a bagful and part from me with the delightful sight of seeing all my schoolmates green with envy as I pulled out some tasty rusks from my bag during snacktime.

And now every time I bake a batch of rusks with my kids, it does not fail to bring back that warm, sweet memory. My daughter is now at the age that I was when I was with my mother, diligently stirring the mixture as she bombards me with questions. The recipe is written down, messy and hurried, with my mom’s handwriting; the paper has spots and is slightly torn. Every time I take a piece of what she has baked, I am reminded of her cheerful face, her arms hugging me regardless of the flour. How grateful I am for such an opportunity, for there are endless memories of family heritage preserved in a warm, scrumptious homemade buttermilk rusk. The smell and the feeling of rusks toasting still to this date bring out the feeling of being home.