The Smells

Smell is one of the most powerful senses. One whiff of a treasured smell can immediately jog your memory and cart you off to places long ago or far away. The memory bank associated with smell is complex and consistent. While my eyes sometimes deceive me, in my experience, smell is always true.

Some foods have very powerful smells, which trigger powerful emotions. I love the smell of bacon frying in the pan.  I am not really that big a fan of bacon. I don’t buy into everything’s better with bacon, but it’s ok, and I’ll eat it here and there.  But, the smell….ahhh…that’s a comforting, start-the-day-off-right smell. Coffee is the same.  I am not a coffee drinker.  Those of us with, let’s say, tender digestive systems,  learn to avoid the foods and drinks that set things off. So, I don’t drink coffee. Although, I occasionally drink something in the coffee wheelhouse and usually pay the price later.

Before I realized it was a no-no, I actually trained myself to drink coffee. As a young adult, I recognized that I was a grown-up, and I really should learn how to drink coffee. My grandmother often asked, “have you learned to drink coffee, yet?”, as if it was a right of passage, and proof of adulthood. I had gone on a similar mission in college, when I determined that I really should learn how to drink beer.  A sip here, a sip there, and four years later, I proved my worth at an infamous party at Little River, where, armed with a goldfish bowl full of beer, I made, what some might call, a lasting impression. Yay for me; I did it. Don’t really care for beer, now, though.

Back to coffee, early in my working career—my strategy was simple—I would trick my brain into liking coffee using the Frog-in-Boiling-Water technique. At work, I started in our office break room, by pouring an entire package of hot chocolate mix into my coffee cup, then filling the cup with coffee, instead of hot water.  Mocha. OK, so far. A few days later, I poured only ¾ of the hot chocolate package into the cup. The flavor was, now, distinctly tinged with coffee, but tolerable.  A few more days, then down to ½ pack of hot chocolate. Then, later, even less chocolate to flavor the coffee. You get the picture.  When I finally weaned out all of the hot chocolate, I found that I was able to drink an entire cup of coffee. Turns out, coffee didn’t really agree with me, so I gave up the victory.

Weren’t we talking about smells?  Let’s get back to that. When I was young, my family visited Williamsburg, VA, a re-created colonial village. The only thing I remember about the trip was a bakery which baked gingerbread that could be smelled all over the village. I’m pretty sure we ate some, but, mostly, I remember the captivating smell.  To this day, if I smell gingerbread, I imagine myself standing beside a stately colonial building with a Martha Washington reenactor walking past. 

Have you ever smelled sunscreen? I feel the sand on my toes with the first whiff.  I don’t get the same reaction if a see a beach towel or a beach umbrella. It’s the smell of the sunscreen that transports me to the beach. Likewise, the smell of one particular brand of hand lotion transports me to New York City, to my Art Appreciation Trip during college years. Something about the scent is unique and reminds me of our trek through museums.

Some smells trigger negative memories. My grandmother insisted on cooking yellow squash in the most disgusting way. I don’t have anything against yellow squash. I don’t seek it out, but, if it’s there, I’ll often eat it.  Unless it is fried with onions. She would cook sliced squash with onions in a dollop of oil in a pan, constantly pushing it around the pan with a spatula, until the gooey squash insides were smeared around everywhere and tinted with a slightly brown edge. It was squash at its worst, slimy and unappetizing.  And it smelled bad. If I walked into the house and smelled the squash mush cooking, I ran for the hills. Quite a few arguments at the dinner table ensued, because my gag reflux was fully engaged. I rarely encounter that smell anymore, but my body is fully braced to deal with it, in case it comes back.

My favorite scent memory is freshly baked bread.  My grandaddy was a baker, and the supervisor of the kitchen at one of the state hospitals. He planned the meal menus and oversaw the cooking and distribution of the food. One time, my sister, mom and dad, and I were allowed to visit him at work. I have pretty strong memories of the visit, even though I was probably about 5 years old. When the door was opened to go into the kitchen area, we were immediately hit by the full, rich aroma of freshly baked bread. We were surrounded by industrial bakers racks, which were laden with trays full of loaves of bread.  Workers were pushing the racks around on wheels, switching trays with meal service plates, each covered by a cloche. The room was full of hustle and bustle, and we heard clinks, clanks, swishes, and bumps, along with the busy instructions called out between the workers. Some workers stood at the stoves stirring pots, some lifted large pans out of ovens, some walked quickly in or out of swinging doors. I was mesmerized, standing there breathing in the bread air and watching the exciting scene in front of me.  My parents pushed me along until we got to our destination—Grandaddy’s office.  It was the coolest office I had ever seen. Now, I was only 5, so I hadn’t seen many offices, but believe me, it was cool. The office was smack-dab in the middle of the kitchen. There were banks of windows on 3 walls, so that, when standing (or sitting) in the office, you could watch everything that was happening in the kitchen.

While the grownups talked, I scurried from window to window, pressing my nose against the glass to peer out.  I noticed several things.  First, the sounds were muffled.  It was like we had gone into a private box, where you could hear a suggestion of the sounds, but not the sounds themselves. Second, I noticed the uniforms that the workers were wearing. I had seen the bright white, highly starched pants, shirt, apron, and hat at my grandaddy’s house.  But, these were on another level. Dozens of workers buzzing about in their perfectly clean, perfectly creased white uniforms. And, third, I saw it…..could it be? There on a table on one side of the kitchen was a gorgeous, intricately decorated 3 tier wedding cake! How could that be? A wedding cake? My granddaddy made wedding cakes??? I heard the grownups talking about it. He had made the cake for a staff member who was getting married. That was incredible. A wedding cake!

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Before I knew it, it was time to go.  We had been there for an hour, or maybe 5 minutes, I didn’t really know.  When the office door was opened, we were immediately surrounded by the smell of bread again.  It was like this.  If you were standing in clear clean air, and then you stepped into a curtain of fog.  All of your senses would be titillated by the overpowering substance of the fog. You would see and feel and breathe the fog.  That’s what happened when we stepped into the air which was full of bread aroma.  I breathed freshly baked bread down into my toes. Which might be why I couldn’t move, until someone ushered me along between the tables. This time, we walked past the wedding cake. I used every ounce of self-control I could muster, borrowing from future self-control, to keep me from poking a finger into the icing to lick it.  Even at 5 years old, I knew the consequences would be harsh. In a few seconds, we had left the building.  I remember the feeling of sadness that I was back in the ordinary world now. Dull and ho-hum.  But, I kept thinking about the visit to Grandaddy’s kitchen.  I had gained a new-found respect for him. I realized that he was a special super hero of the highest order!

Now, when I smell freshly baked bread, guess where my mind goes? How about you? What’s your favorite scent memory?