I remember in smell, don’t you? My mothers kitchen when I was a kid. I smell mac n cheese when I smell my mothers kitchen in my memory, but then it drifts to chicken soup. My dog. That dog was such a lunatic dog. She used to jump the fence and go for a run and then just come on back whenever she pleased. We tried everything but she just was gonna go for a run. My babies, their sweet sweet heads, their stinky, funky folds.
Someone told me today that my house is a good smell when you walk in. I almost cried. What a wonderful thing to say to a person. So important.
I suppose though that there is a reason those smells are so precious to me. It is not just the smells themselves.
I have to think it through. This precious work.
If I were to come out with a hand and body wash, and a mother used it in her bathroom or by the magic of the family kitchen sink, and it was made with the purest ingredients and scented with thoughtfulness and essential oils only, it could only be good, right?
But then what if she had a guest in her kitchen, and they used the soap, and the smell was horrible to them, like old gym shoes.
Wouldn’t that say something about me?
When I first started learning how to cook, I could not serve my food. I was living in a house with friends and we would often have dinner guests. Usually, it was a table with 20 or so people all squished cozy together, some lounging on pillows. I think the table was actually a door laid out over cinderblocks on the old stone floor. Everyone would contribute something to the meal, either food or wine, and music. I would sometimes make some food to go on the table. I could never be the one to bring out my food though. I could bring out someone else’s food, but never my own creation.
My friend Anna, who was born a wise woman, sent me out of the kitchen one night.
She just smiled at me and said, here take this out.
What a beautiful friend.