Mirabelle Eau de Vie

Wow. The first whiff of the light but heady alcohol burn boomeranged me right back to the dark little shed in France where my French dad, René-Pierre, was beginning the process of making mirabelle eau de vie. The mirabelle plum is a petite yellow fruit, delicate and sweet, almost floral in nature, and very easy to eat a lot of. I remember watching René-Pierre stirring the bright plums that floated in a contrasting dark wooden barrel, and that the dense smell of fermentation nearly overwhelmed the sweetness of the fruit. The air in the shed was hot and close, the sunshine on the grass outside offering a promise of space and fresh air. I was too young to realize how special the moment was.

Sipping the eau de vie tonight was nearly as good as time-travel; eyes closed, leaning in to the glass, I couldn’t speak for several seconds. I’m torn between wanting to drink it again as soon as possible–the one I drank is locally made–and wanting to give the experience time to recede, so that it will regain its power.

Me-n-Ed’s Pizza

Whenever my brothers’ baseball team won an important game, the whole team would be taken to Me-n-Ed’s Pizza Parlour. The dark wood and barely windowed medieval-ish space of my memory is a far cry from their current vaulted and bright pizzeria design, but it has been a few years. When I remember walking in the door, the exciting circus smell of cotton candy is followed by the mouthwatering aroma of thin pepperoni slices, and later a blast of peppery rootbeer making wooden wind-chime sounds in an ice-filled clear or red plastic glass. The long table of rowdy kids would go through several pies and pitchers of soda in no time at all, and as the team’s unofficial mascot, I got to sit with the boys rather than my parents, who were decompressing with the other adults in the relative quiet of the far side of the restaurant.

Craving cotton candy, I once rode my bike to the restaurant on a summer weekday, but they told me that the machine was broken and I left disappointed. The fuzzy pink smell is always related to pizza for me, even now.

Tea, Earl Grey, Hot

You either get the reference, or you don’t. I can only imagine the solace that the delicate, sprightly bergamot smell would offer to a Starfleet Captain who is lightyears from home, but I’d guess it’s similar to the immediate relaxation and pleasure that I feel when I inhale over my own cup of tea. The feeling of comfort and youthfulness might be because bergamot is the same flavoring that’s used in Trix cereal, but whatever the reason, it’s nice to have such a reliable talisman to call upon in times of unease or fatigue.

Milk Monitor Carrier

The handled wooden box is always dark and moist on the bottom, glistening with milk that seems to always leak out of the supposedly sealed half-pint cartons. I enjoyed the freedom that came with the job, the daily escape from the classroom a few minutes before lunch, but I always hated the sour milk smell that permeated the small windowless room at the end of classroom block. My very infrequent memories of the scent still make my nose shrivel with distaste.

Milk monitors in Great Britain and Australia had the additional responsibility of monitoring their peers’ consumption of sometimes sour or curdled milk. Fortunately, I only had to pass it out to the kids whose names were included with each day’s delivery.

Microwave Popcorn

It’s usually around 3pm that the smell of microwave popcorn drifts from the “kitchen” down the hall. In every office environment I’ve worked in, someone, some time has entered the codes that yield the unmistakable odor: a plasticy, semi-burnt, definitely artificial butterish smell that is simultaneously appetizing and revolting. Different in category from movie theatre popcorn, the wafting of microwave popcorn represents the desperate for anything at all to eat triumph of expedience over care. It permeates the environment for hours—if only the taste were as powerful as its overbearing presence.

Soul food? Cortina’s.

The smell shouldn’t work but it totally does. The hodgepodge mix of luncheon meats, hard and soft cheeses, and freshly baked Italian bread and cookies only means two things to me: Cortina’s, and I’m home. It’s our family’s version of soul food and I make at least one trip every time I’m back. My face is fixed in a wide grin as I stroll through the aisles, and I probably look like a lunatic to be so ecstatic about Italianate packaged goods, imported though they may be, but I am unashamed. I love this place, and I’ll probably take back at least a pound each of Jordan almonds and imported Parmesan when I leave.

Candy Necklace

If a smell could connote stickiness, this one would be a top contender. Pastel sugar sweet with a faint suggestion of orange flower. Running after the ice cream truck, then wearing the necklace for as long as I could stand the temptation. At intervals, I would bite the sweet and just barely salty candies one by one right off the elastic, which was still stretched around my neck. The tugging at the edges of my mouth combined with the dull powdery crunch of the breaking candy disc was as much a part of the experience as the smell and taste of the candy itself.