Overpowering desire, out of nowhere, for the scent and taste of marshmallow char. I haven't had so much as a s'more since around 1990. I don't even like marshmallows. The more I thought about it, the closer I tracked the scent-memory to 1982 or so. My dad was still alive and had bought my mom a microwave oven for Mother's Day. She was pissed
. Nobody else had a microwave. It was an expensive extravagance, and what the hell was she going to do with it? A recipe book came with it, and we tried making the "chocolate pizza." It was just chocolate, nuts, and marshmallows melted together then chilled in a pan and cut into slices. It was chewy, and had that peculiar twisty scent of caramelization. And here, over twenty-five years later, I could just kill for a pan of fresh Rocky Road bars.
Oh, god, that tomato and corn syrup reek
of Spaghetti-O's. I thought it was coming from the restaurant downstairs at first, but it turns out there's just a bottle of V-8 in the trash.
The memories brought on by Franco-American imitation pasta food-composite byproduct are pretty good, all warm late Saturday mornings and awful Hanna-Barbera cartoons. (Except by the time I was eating lunch, they were usually doing all the live action stuff like "Goin' Bananas" and "Jason of Star Command" and "Land of the Lost." But USA Network had really
bad cartoons all
But the pasta still reeks. Apparently, what it reeks of is day-old V-8.
I noticed for the first time today my son (4 years old) having a gendered smell. That is to say, he smelled like a boy rather than like a baby or a kid more generally. I found this distinctly odd -- I wouldn't have expected it until puberty -- but it was unmistakeable.
Welcome to the Nosetalgia community! It's nothing complicated, just a place to post about the scents you encounter in your daily lives and how they make you feel.
I work right above a bagel shop. Every morning, the streets of downtown Boston start to reek of boiled yeast. Some mornings, it's absolutely revolting. Some mornings, all I can think of are the lonely old breakfast diners all back and forth along I-90 from Wisconsin to Washington. I'm not sure which I prefer, the revulsion or the poignance. I guess it depends on whether it'll turn into cinnamon rolls.