When I was about eight or nine, my job every morning was to buy fresh bread for the family before school. We lived in a small town near Isfahan in Iran, and there was a traditional bakery at the end of our street.
Every day my father would give me some money the night before, and I'd wake up at half past six, while everyone else was still asleep. I'd walk down the street in the cold, and in winter it was often still dark. At the bakery there was always a queue of mostly older men, and I'd stand there watching the baker slap the dough onto the hot walls of the clay oven and peel it off a minute later. I usually bought four or five pieces of flatbread, which came out so hot I had to carry them folded in a cloth. By the time I got home, my mother had the tea ready and we'd all eat breakfast together.
At first I felt quite proud, because it was the first time my parents had trusted me to go out alone with money. It made me feel grown-up. Later, of course, there were mornings when I hated it, especially in January when I just wanted to stay under the blankets. But looking back now, I feel very fond of it. The bakers got to know me, they'd sometimes give me a small extra piece for free, and I learned to deal with adults and count change. I'm a dentist now, living in Toronto, and I still miss the smell of that bakery.