We once went to a local purveyor of southern cuisine and I was not fully prepared for the wave of homesickness it produced in me. Not for the home I’m raising my children in, nor the home I grew up in, but the home where my grandparents lived. The wood paneling, vinyl upholstery and eclectic collection of vintage (or at least vintage looking) chairs, light fixtures and knick-knacks reminded me so much of spending time at my Grandma’s house.

Grandma had dish towels sewn into arm covers on her recliner and there were cracked linoleum floors and orange and brown shag carpet that always smelled like my grandpa’s chewing tobacco. It was the place that smelled of propane space heaters in the winter. It was the place where I would lay under the window unit AC to cool off and rest when I got tired and hot from exploring the hills and creeks in the summer. It was the place where I had malt-o-meal for breakfast and margarine on white bread toast and the place that smelled of musty books and homemade biscuit dough and mostly safety and love.

To this marketing strategy, all I can say is, “Well played.”

P.S. Happy Birthday Grandma!