My debut into parenting back in 2010 didn’t go quite as planned. Scratch that. It didn’t go anywhere even remotely close to “as planned.” My husband, Glenn, and I live half a mile down a dirt road in Candler. The road terminates at our house, which is enveloped by a forested cove. It is quiet and idyllic and serene, and it was at this little bungalow in the woods that we intended to meet our first son. With our midwives, we envisioned a peaceful, relaxed birth, with candles lit, our numerous cats and dogs slumbering nearby, ambient music pulsing rhythmically in the background, and a general air of solace permeating throughout.

What we ended up with was an emergency trip to the hospital, for what turned out to be preeclampsia moving into eclampsia (a condition highly dangerous to both mother and baby). While we’d envisioned a seamless entrée Earth-side for our son, cozied up at home, he was instead welcomed into a hospital room with machines attached to us both. Major complications arose eight hours later for me, and I was rushed off to surgically remove a twisted ovary and fallopian tube that had become necrotic, leading to the beginning of internal organ failure. My newborn babe was left to nurse not with his mama, but with formula from a bottle, administered by a maternity nurse in the newborn nursery. Change of plans, indeed.

We returned home to our oasis in the woods four days after hastily departing, a cooing, wiggling bundle of wonder as our hospital tenure’s most enduring (and cutest) souvenir. Friends had stepped in to take care of our dogs, cats, and chickens, providing for our menagerie of creatures at a moment’s notice. I’m a perennial home-body under the best of circumstances, so you can imagine how profoundly ready I was to return to the comfort of the cove after such an ordeal. Everything felt “off,” to put it mildly.

When your world is as suddenly and traumatically shaken as ours was, you desperately crave some semblance of normalcy. Some touchstone to indicate that things are going to be okay. You seek out the familiar. You long for indications of home. In my case, I was a fledgling mother recovering from unexpected, life-saving surgery (I was warned not to leave the house for two weeks, owing to a white blood cell count so low that even a cold or everyday virus could be fatal). I was scared, overwhelmed, and unsure of everything. I deeply needed to feel safe, nourished, and comforted.

Which is where potpie came to the rescue. Never underestimate the power of potpie to serve as a healing balm. During those first few months with our new baby, as we got to know him and all that goes into the care of a newborn, it seemed that all I wanted was potpie. Whether homemade, gifted from loving friends, or purchased readymade, potpie offered the comfort I so desperately craved. For me, it tasted of home.

Years ago, my younger sisters Devan and Theo, who used to spend a week with Glenn and me every summer, asked me what fragrance it was we used in our home. I was perplexed. I didn’t scent our home with anything, so I kept coming up short on what to tell them. It finally occurred to me that the scent they were describing was simply what our home, and we, smelled like. It was the foods we cooked with, the wood stove we warmed with, the body care and cleaning products we made and used, and the bits of nature we decorated with. What they were smelling was, well, it was us.

In addition to our homes having a characteristic or signature scent, whether we’re aware of it or not, I believe they also have a taste. While mine might taste like potpie (especially in times of uncertainty, it would seem), yours may very well taste of pork chops, or lasagna, or navy bean soup (my grandfather Pop Pop’s signature dish, according to my dad). Homes are deeply sensory places, rife with aromas, textures, sounds, visual delights, and, of course, flavors. Determining what home tastes like for you is key in best parsing out what maximizes your sense of well-being and comfort, wherever in the world you might find yourself. ◊◊

Ashley English is the author of 11 books, including Home Apothecary with Ashley English: All You Need to Know to Create Natural Health and Body Care Products, Southern From Scratch: Pantry Essentials and Down-Home Recipes, and A Year of Picnics: Recipes for Dining Well in the Great Outdoors. She lives in Candler, North Carolina, with her husband, two sons, and a menagerie of chickens, dogs, cats, and bees. Smallmeasure.com