The aroma of chocolate in German chocolate cake,
Two nine-inch rounds of warm, moist, perfectly baked chocolate,
Baked from scratch without a written recipe,
My all-time favorite melt-in-mouth cake,
Bake it for my birthday, Christmas, anytime cake,
Caramel, coconut, pecan luscious frosting,
I’m eight, spend all my money to win Mama’s cake at the fair,
Here love is found, here love is found.

The smell of freshly baking biscuits,
A cookie sheet full, perfectly round circles,
Cut with a recycled Vienna sausage can,
Except for one triple-sized “Daddy” biscuit,
And one half-size “Baby Sister” biscuit,
Bacon frying, grits simmering, eggs being scrambled,
I’m twelve, p. j. clad, wiping sleep from my eyes,
Here love is found, here love is found.

The scent of deep-fried special occasion only chicken,
Between oil and chicken affording it is hard,
Took an hour to get the oil hot enough,
Calling dibs on the legs and wings,
Daddy wants the other parts, no wings,
Potato salad, deviled eggs, baked beans,
I’m sixteen and Mama’s food is about all we share,
Here love is found, here love is found.

Aroma of Mama’s preparing her chicken and dressing,
Chicken stewing on the stove with herbs,
Cornbread browning in the oven just right,
Onions, breadcrumbs, poultry seasoning,
All the ingredients, her secrets and other perfect “seasoning”,
Everyone will be feasting with this one dish,
I’m twenty-two aghast she added Cayenne pepper!
Here love is found, here love is found.

Smell of Thanksgiving dinner with “The Dressing”,
Turkey, sweet potato casserole, corn, mac-n-cheese,
Extra cornbread browning in the oven,
Deviled eggs and potato salad in the frig,
Mama’s recipes, only I’m cooking, my oven and frig,
I’m thirty-three, cooking for our first holiday and the in-law’s,
Her recipes from her head, my memories, into my computer.
Here love is found, here love is found.

Smell of other people’s food drifting,
Through the house with chatter after the funeral,
Her funeral, our Mama’s funeral, ’cause she is gone,
Conversation turns to her food, her cooking,
Cakes, mashed potatoes, biscuits, her cooking,
Everyone has a story, weddings catered, birthdays,
I’m thirty-five and it hurts to hear, to remember.
Here love is found, here love is found.

Familiar aromas have wafted through our home,
My family and friends talk about my from scratch carrot cake,
They plea with me for Grams/my dressing,
Mama loved mine better than her own dressing,
I’m fifty-one and Hospice comes almost daily,
My death will be no surprise and I pass recipes to our daughter,
Here love is found, here love is found.

I awaken to the smell of Mama’s biscuits baking,
Bacon frying, coffee brewing, and I’m confused,
I’m alone no one is here and no biscuits baking,
All day I smell them and I think I’m losing my mind.
Or is this medication playing tricks with my mind?
Then my Hospice nurse arrives and I ask,
“Do you smell biscuits baking? ” And I explain.
Here love is found. Here love is found.

When I’ve met Jesus, and the initial welcome home is done,
I’ll walk arm-in-arm with Mama to home within home,
Where’s there’s a pan of love in the oven.
Biscuits and dressing in the oven.
God’s love has sight, aroma, sound, feel,
I’m seeing Him, smelling, feeling safe in his Him.
Here love is found. Here love is found.
dfav 9/20/15
-Donna