Tag Archives: smells

Where My Past Meets My Present and Changes Blogs

10 Oct

Thanks to the generous flour mill lending of my fellow other-blogger Jeannette, and Super Walmart’s affordable bag of wheat berries I set out on a whole new journey last week – grinding my own flour.

For those of you who worry that this might be the very last straw – ha!  ha!  Get it?  “Straw!” – in my journey towards being a conservative-crunchy-granola-homeschooling-weirdo, fear not.  I either entered into that territory a long time ago, or I’m no where near it.  I can’t really tell.  But crunchy granola is super-duper yummy.

The tie-dyed shirt might be incriminating evidence.

Anyway, you’re probably wondering what flour grinding has to do with my past, or reading classic novels.  Hold on just a second.  I’ll get there.  Just be patient.  I have to help you slowly navigate through my mind, which is a bit of a dangerous journey.

As we tore open the bag of wheat and reached into the little berries I was immediately transported back to the quonset.  You remember the quonset, right?  It was in the Rural Dictionary which you were supposed to commit to memory, so I’m sure you know exactly what I’m talking about.

The quonset was where we stored pig feed.  Do you know what pigs eat?  Do you?  Have you ever really thought about it?  The answer is not ham.  Or bacon.  You’re confused.  In books pigs eat slop.  And to be sure, we did not own a garbage disposal and my family always called the one in my Gramma’s house “the electric pig,” but that is hardly the sole sustenance of the porcine species.

No, they eat grain.  I guess.  I never actually gave a lot of thought to what pig feed was until I tore open that bag of wheat and little particles floated up my nose and into my memory bank.  That wheat smelled exactly like pig feed.

I know, you’re thinking that I probably found it all very unappetizing and had to abandon my plans to become a anti-establishment, hippie, tree-hugging, unschooler who lives in a commune. Well, fear not.  I am wholly dedicated to yummy pizza crust.  Because pig feed smells good.

Again, I think you are confused.  It’s the pigs that don’t smell good.  And definitely what they turn the feed into reeks the hairs right off your nostrils.  But the pre-digested food?  That’s a smell Yankee could put in wax and burn.

The sniffing is genetic.

And it tastes good, too.  Or at least that’s what Dad always said when he tried to shock us by chewing on a pinch of the Baby Pig Food.  We learned later that the secret ingredient in that rich, black formula was molasses.  Plus, it was an excellent source of iron.

You made it this far into my scary mind journey, are you ready to go a little further and find out how this all connects to classic literature?  Well, then you’ll have to follow me, over to my other blog . . .

Are you coming?

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The Post Only a Package Sniffing Dog Could Love

21 Sep

Today’s installment of Things I Love may seem obvious as first, but there’s something dwelling beneath the surface here.  We recently got a package from my sister, and while everyone loves receiving a package in the mail, that isn’t my topic.  Take a deep breath and enjoy.

Things I Love:  The Smell of My Sister’s House.

You know how everyone has their own smell?  Of course you do, that’s not just my own weird overly sensitive thing?  Right?

I thought so.  Okay, back to the pleasant mail delivery.

As the packing tape released it’s final squeaks and cardboard dust particles spread across the kitchen floor the first hints of  the Nebraskans’ cozy split-level reached our noses.  The box – which was filled with birthday gifts, old maternity clothes (NOT to wear, but to cut into a memory quilt for the no-longer-in-utero children that were once hidden under it’s voluminous , yet taut fabric,) and some baby things – was also teeming with Stacy Scent.

It’s dark and figgy and savory and warm and wraps itself around you like a hug that reaches right up through your nostrils.  In a delightful way, of course.  The contents of that package all bore the mark of their origin and the boys and I spent a good portion of the day squishing our faces in for a quick hit of their family’s presence.

Simeon has been aware of his aunt’s odorous ambiance for several years now.  Once, after she sent me some maternity clothing that could be worn without shame or vice I threw on some capris and a tank straight from the box.  The first thing a barely 3-yr-old Simeon said to me was, “I like your green pants and your yellow shirt.”  While I applauded his knowledge of colors, and questioned my own fashion sense, he gave me a big leg hug and then continued his sensory observation with, “Oh!  You smell just like Aunt Stacy!”  The remainder of the day he stayed close at hand, or leg, as the case may be, for frequent sniffs of his beloved aunt’s pants.

I know exactly how he feels.  I sometimes buy “her scent” of body wash in hopes of catching a whiff of my sister on those days when I need a little moral support.  The bonus side-effect is that lathering up also gets a few extra hugs out of the kids.

This nose-worthy accomplishment doesn’t belong solely to Simeon, though.  Abraham used it just the other day.  I was helping him tie his new-to-him fall shoes (Note to self:  teach your children to tie their own shoes.  Soon.  Now.) when I mentioned that I couldn’t recall what generous party had bestowed them on us.  Abe didn’t hesitate.  He picked up the remaining shoe, stuck his nose deep in its footy cavern, inhaled loudly and made his judgment, “It doesn’t smell like Owen and Joe.  It smells like Nathan.”

So there you have it folks.  Whether we have highly sensitive olfactory nerves, or my sister and her household just smell really, really good we may never know.  But then again, maybe you don’t want to know.  Maybe you wish that you could erase what you already know.

Wow, I’m not at all sorry that I wrote this post.

By the way, could you please forget that I implied that I think you smell?

A nose by any other name would smell as sweet.