Have you ever noticed smells can act like glue for memories? You may not have thought of a particular person, place or event for years on end, then you smell something that suddenly brings it all back. 

Petrichor

Petrichor is a fancy term for one of my favorite things. That smell when the summer thunder storms roll in and within moments throw open the sky’s floodgates. Flashes of lightning followed in seconds by the roll of thunder that shakes the house send you running for cover. There are some days though, when you’re not worried about getting wet, so you stand in the deluge and let the rain wash away all the dust, heat and worries of the summer. 

For me, petrichor takes me back to Moab in late summer. My brother E— and I would sit under the carport, watching the lightning and listening to the rumbling thunder. Before long the street before us would begin to run with brown muddy rain, gradually gaining its deep red tint from the iron in the red rocks. When we saw the level of water in the gutters rising, we’d run to the garage, where E— would use whatever he could find to cobble together a little “boat” to navigate to the lake at the end of the street. 

I don’t recall these boats having much resemblance to your average watercraft, but if it floated, it was good enough for us. Quite often they probably more closely resembled a chunk of 2×4 with nails sticking out. Standing in the gushing water, our boat was launched on its five or so minute tour and chased down the street so see how well it fared in its lake-like destination. By that time, the rain had slowed or stopped, the sun was peeking out from the clouds and bringing back the heat while we trudged back up the street with dreams of the next rain storm and boating adventure.

Almond Flavoring

It only takes about a teaspoon of almond flavoring in buttercream frosting to take me to my mother’s kitchen. I’m hardly taller than the mobile dishwasher she used for decorating cakes. There’s also the lingering smell of cakes that were baked and refrigerated or frozen in the days before. In the background, the Kitchenaid is beating its rhythmic whipping of the next batch of frosting. 

I would sit for what seemed like hours on my little stool, loving the process of leveling the cake layers, gluing them together, and then creating an amazing confection from a few simple ingredients. Mom’s simple strokes covering the delicious cake with the whipped sugar and Crisco, a few dunks in a glass of water and a twirl on the lazy Susan made a perfectly smooth base for the frills and flowers to come. 

Some days we’d sit and make flowers for hours on end. When I was old enough, I was responsible for cutting the little squares of wax paper she would adhere to the flower nail with just a touch of frosting. The roses were the best, starting as a sweet little rosebud and twirling in her fingers, adding layer upon layer of petals. I’ve tried making those roses in recent years and never could figure out how she made so many and made it look so easy.

Someone named Walter Hagen said, “You’re only here for a short visit. Don’t hurry, don’t worry. And be sure to smell the flowers along the way.” I would only add a suggestion to take in all the smells you can, because you never know which one is going to help cement the pictures in your head.