When I was a kid we spent summers in Fiskebäckskil with Grandma and Grandpa living upstairs while we occupied the downstairs. Grandma would always have nectarines in a basket in the kitchen upstairs but to my disappointment I was not allowed to touch them until they were just perfectly ripe. When they were, finally, she would cut slices and, if I behaved, I got to taste. 😉
That lovely smell of ripe nectarines will forever be Fiskebäckskil for me, my heaven on earth.
Way over here in Brazil where everything is different, that smell remains the same and brings tranquility and joy but also a touch of homesickness and longing. 
