The Cinnamon Addiction

I once bought a tiny little bottle of cinnamon oil for an astronomical price. I was trying to break away from the lavendar addiction; explore the scent possibilities. I was somewhat deterred by the incident in which I jumped into a car and a little way down the road, the driver said "mmm, who's bought along cinnamon scrolls?" Decided then that perhaps I didn't want to be associated with edible substances, particularly those so decidedly "Banjos".

Years ago, my mother prescribed for my 'depression', sage and turmeric which she would arrange delicately on a bed of ricotta cheese, itself spread on pumpernickel. She even pre-packaged tiny containers of it to carry with me whilst I travelled around South East Asia. (And fresh sage, when it is roasted upon potatos, manages a particular kind of crispyness.)

I will always remember my first experience of chai tea at a forest festival in Jackey's Marsh. And just today I have drawn the link between that comfort mug and my dad making hot milk with honey and cinnamon as an after-rainy-school-day treat.

Cinnamon is the happy comfort spice that they advocate for staving off mid-winter slumps and bumps and every morning I consider that as I powder my porridge with the soft brown spice.