One of my fondest childhood memories is buying roasted chestnuts with my grandpa and slipping them into our pockets to keep our hands warm in the cold. Their flavor, for me, is unequivocally tied to chilly weather and the comforting warmth of those moments.

When my grandfather died, the only thing he asked to be buried with was a small pouch of roasted chestnuts. he used to say they reminded him of long cold walks home through wartime forests that smelled like smoke and bark.

Anyway after the funeral, I cracked one open by the fire and it was still sweet. RIP baba

the history of food is fascinating. But this is the history of food and lumber which is even more fascinating.