Last
night I made monkey bread, that seductively simple imitator of coffee cake.
Previous failures to watch the clock have resulted in some very hard,
very brown renditions of this treat, and my eagerness to prevent this batch
from encountering similar misfortunes kept me opening the oven at regular
intervals. About five minutes before I took the pan out of the oven for
good, I peeked in at it, and suddenly it was Friday morning. I was
standing in our apartment at six-thirty on a Tuesday evening, but it was Friday
morning and I was waking up in a pink bedroom. I was nine, twelve,
fourteen years old, in a twenty-one year old body over a hundred miles away
from that second story room. Cinnamon, brown sugar and biscuits smells
like Friday morning.
When I was dating the guy who became my husband, I spent a Fourth of July evening at his parents’ house. I tie-dyed a T-shirt and in the process managed to put a permanent purple stain on a dress that had previously been only red, white and blue. I don’t know if I can blame my sloppiness on the giddiness caused by my proximity to Mark, but surely he accounts for the lapse in memory which caused me to dye the majority of the shirt yellow. Although I have never been able to wear that color, I wore the shirt, because it came to me smelling like their house. Like him.
It doesn’t make sense, but it makes perfect sense. A small jar that held anise sends me to a small store in Carmel, California. Chlorinated water is the smell of summer, in particular the summers when a turquoise swimsuit still fit me. I can be anywhere in the world and be somewhere else, and it’s not quite a memory, just an impression, and sometimes the impression isn’t clear enough for me even to form a mental image. Sometimes it’s strong enough to make me wear yellow.
I have considered it, and realized that I do not need to smell. It’s a sense that could be deleted from my repertoire without hurting me at all. I’m told this would have the side effect of reducing my ability to taste, but I could handle that, too. Not a problem. There is nothing that really makes a sense of smell imperative.
Nothing except those moments of perfect clarity, like Friday morning on a Tuesday evening.
When I was dating the guy who became my husband, I spent a Fourth of July evening at his parents’ house. I tie-dyed a T-shirt and in the process managed to put a permanent purple stain on a dress that had previously been only red, white and blue. I don’t know if I can blame my sloppiness on the giddiness caused by my proximity to Mark, but surely he accounts for the lapse in memory which caused me to dye the majority of the shirt yellow. Although I have never been able to wear that color, I wore the shirt, because it came to me smelling like their house. Like him.
It doesn’t make sense, but it makes perfect sense. A small jar that held anise sends me to a small store in Carmel, California. Chlorinated water is the smell of summer, in particular the summers when a turquoise swimsuit still fit me. I can be anywhere in the world and be somewhere else, and it’s not quite a memory, just an impression, and sometimes the impression isn’t clear enough for me even to form a mental image. Sometimes it’s strong enough to make me wear yellow.
I have considered it, and realized that I do not need to smell. It’s a sense that could be deleted from my repertoire without hurting me at all. I’m told this would have the side effect of reducing my ability to taste, but I could handle that, too. Not a problem. There is nothing that really makes a sense of smell imperative.
Nothing except those moments of perfect clarity, like Friday morning on a Tuesday evening.
Beautiful Anne! I love how you express yourself.
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