Making Sense of My Scents

My first, gasoline-charged cup of Joe in almost nine months sat on my brown plastic tray in my tiny hospital room. Although it was the type I, to this day, disdain (coffee that I can see through), the smell of this Sanka derivative was overpowering and forever etched in my memory as a metaphor of hope, new life, and, at long-last, caffeine!!

Completing my evening tonight was much as my day had started—with Travis vomiting his dessert of two bake-n-break chocolate chip cookies adorned with the leftover M&Ms from his Easter basket. He complained that he smelled something bad and that sent him back to the bathroom, in full circle from how the day started. I will never be as scent-sensitive as Travis, or my dear friend, Holly, who is currently living in Budapest and is the only living person I know that has actually utilized the airline barf bag (on numerous occasions!). I am thankful, however, that despite my growing years, I can still recall with absolute clarity what my grandmother’s kitchen smelled like when she was in the middle of preparing a batch of Latvian peadogs or sauerkraut or pickled herring (ick!). Or the smell of gas on my hands and shoes from the last time I filled up (and the reason my mother, to this day, will not pump her own gas!). Or the smell of baby powder on a freshly diapered baby’s bum. If you are a not a nose-breather, you are missing out on a whole world of memories!