olfactory of the home
You should see my Sunday dress. I look like someone patted me down after putting his little paws in a bowl of beans. Oh wait. That is what happened. At the end of the day, when my clothes are dirty, I feel like I earned my sleep. It should be a good night, especially with all the comfort-making going on in the kitchen.
Seth is in the kitchen now preparing Coq Au Vin for tomorrow night’s dinner company, and if I could bottle this smell, I would spray it every day. It’s scientifically impossible for my boys to not want to come home from college to this air.
We spent the night at Seth’s parent’s house last night, and I always love how a welcoming house smells – something with a bay leaf in it cooking on the stove.
When we returned today to the house that used to be grandma’s, to this Rock House, over the wet basement and the irremovable waft of Oil of Olay, I smelled us, our smell, and it is good, some of it inherited, some cooked, some cleaned, some crumbs left in the sink, some too ripened on the counter.
Sometimes I can’t believe I’m a grown up, making a home pulse, ever changing sheets and training minds, ever gathering in arms, ever my own fragrance mingling with Seth’s. I can’t believe its goodness, and by the same token, I cannot believe the bad of it either (the dog/the diapers/forgotten potatoes in the pantry).
How does HOME smell to you?
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