Coming Home Again

Home, to me, is the hot homemade dinners my mom has on the table every night and the bacon and eggs she makes me in the morning. Home is the smell of freshly ground dried hot chili peppers my mom makes for her chili powder that no one but she can handle. Home is the smell of the grapes being crushed in all of Napa Valley; the smell of the yeast, alcohol and dirt. Home, to me, is the sound and smell of rubber burning on the pavement, the sound of a two-stroke or four-stroke dirt bikes, the joy of getting stuck and the sound of a knocking sound system over the roar of 36” tires.