The smell of baking potatoes is one of the nicest things to come home to. It smells of warmth and comfort and safety. Like most of my favourite smells, I have memories hung on this one, which amplify my enjoyment of it.
The smell of jacket potatoes reminds me of being a very little girl. My mum would leave potatoes in the oven to bake while we were shopping in town; when we got home, lunch would be ready. I don’t remember much about eating the potatoes, but I remember that smell, the comfort of it when I was tired and cold, the way it rushed out at us like an excitable puppy as soon as we opened the front door.
The anticipation of the crispy skin and a hot, crumbly centre oozing with melted butter just about tops the eating. But the smell, the anticipation, that’s all part of it. And that’s there, even now, whenever I bake a potato.
Monkey by Kieran Hazell (www.ownbeat.co.uk)