In Knud Romer's fictionalised memoir of growing up in 1960s Denmark, Nothing But Fear, he recollects his grandmother's Gullasch.
I loved Grandmother's cooking. She made Wienerschnitzel and Kalbsfleischgeschnetzeltes mit Rösti, but best of all was her Gullasch. She would stand in the kitchen busily cooking among her old pots and her butcher's knives while the pork and the onions spat and sizzled in the pan. The air was full of spices - paprika and cinnamon and pepper - that made you sneeze, and the steam billowed up from the saucepans, filling the house with fragrances that nothing could match. It was hard not to stick a finger in to taste, and, when the moment finally arrived and the Gullasch was served, my world exploded on my palate into tastes that reached deeper and deeper and never had an end. It felt as though you had been far away on a distant journey, as though many years had passed, when you found yourself back in the sitting-room, your face glowing, and took yet another mouthful.