In the winter, my grandparents' house smelled like cooked food, coffee, and wood smoke.  Is this why I sometimes light a wooden match, blow it out, and sniff the rising wood smoke?  I think so.  I do this sometimes before I write, before I try to make sense of a memory.  It takes me back to a simpler existence when I could afford to listen to my grandparents' stories while we drank coffee and ate cookies.