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.

Simple Green

Apparently, biodegradable, non-toxic Simple Green is the hairstylist’s secret weapon in the fight against blobs of color that somehow land on one’s forehead during the course of an appointment. The soapy, minty, eucalyptol smell with echoes of Listerine transported me back to college, where we used Simple Green to rinse off the boats (Lido 14, Shields, or North American 40) after sailing them for a class, a race, or a trip to Catalina.

Subsequent waves of nostalgia followed: the greasy aroma of hamburgers and beer after the Wet Wednesday races, the tang or brackish scent of the small harbor where the boats were docked, the race we sailed in fog so dense we all took a turn as lookout on Avanti’s bow, and the times when I was greeted with a chorus of “Saaaam!”s when I finally met or rejoined the group after various absences whose purpose I can no longer remember. I confess that I bought a gallon of Simple Green years ago almost solely because it conjured up these and so many more memories, although the added bonus is that it works as well on land as it did on water.

Clove Cigarette

A bittersweet mixture of Knott’s Berry Farm at night, ripe with the promise of cruising, anonymous teenagers (although I was usually the “friend” in that scenario), and the disastrous Halloween party I attended in high school, when what I didn’t know about the guy I’d been giggling with in the corner all night blew up in my face, in the form of his late-arriving, angry, tear-stained girlfriend. I fled the party in shame, remorseful and angry that I wasn’t able to resolve what I felt was an innocent misunderstanding.

Today, the sweet smell begs to be inhaled deeply, even as the warning that “smoking cloves makes holes in your lungs” claxons away in my head. The mixture of youthful insouciance, anticipation, and hyperintensity is a heady one–practically worthy of reformulating as incense, except that the accompanying entwined emotions of excitement and remorse aren’t really a combination I’d willingly seek out for very long.

Underground Parking Lot

Not quite dried concrete, combined with humid remnants of exhaust from all the cars and people that have been here previously. If it weren’t for the chemical smell, the close, warm air would feel luxurious, almost tropical. Since it also smells a little like certain Paris metro stations, there’s also a shiver of that thrilled excitement of being somewhere completely unexplored, with nothing to do but go forth and discover. As quotidian as the environment seems to be, it reminds me of a time when everything felt new, and so it seems to be again.

Bikram Yoga

Heat shriveled my nostrils, but the stale sweat had a physical presence that was almost enough to knock me out. After breathing through my mouth for a few minutes, the smell became somewhat bearable, but only until I was facedown on the floor, nearly gagging from exertion combined with my overactive imagination. Overlooking the practically visible vaporous emissions of hundreds of yogi feet that had walked and sweated on the carpet in the weeks and months before the class I attended wound up being more of a challenge than the physical transformation I was there to undergo.

Now that the rains have returned I may reconsider, but I will probably have to try a different studio. Recommendations welcome!

Santa Ana Winds

This is one of those scents you have to catch early in the morning, before all the moisture’s been leached out of the air and you can’t smell anything at all. First is the last vestiges of the cool morning air that’s rapidly warming up, followed by the rarely encountered smell of mature leaves blowing against each other–there’s eucalyptus, sure, but also additional green smells from the olive, citrus and avocado trees in the back yard–that aren’t as pungent or moist as freshly mown grass, but are still identifiably vegetal. The wind-chimes and rustling leaves add to the excitement that the Santa Ana’s always seem to bring, and there’s probably already a spiky-stemmed palm frond or two on the front lawn that needs to be carefully carted to the side of the house. Later in the day the smoke from the inevitable wildfires reminds everyone of one of the downsides of living in the Golden State.

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.