Hello!
I don’t know about you, but I love baths. The “self-care” movement has overblown them as the solution to everything from depression to greater social problems, but there is something undeniably relaxing about a piping hot bath.
This week, my parents were in town and I joined them at Lake Tahoe. We stayed at an older resort, high in the mountains. It was technically a “time share,” but my dad found a deal on it with the caveat of sitting through a two-hour sales pitch (spoiler: they didn’t buy it). While my parents went to the pitch, I stayed back in the room. I decided to soak in the suite’s giant bathtub. My current apartment doesn’t have a bath; only one cramped shower. I was elated. I made a cup of coffee, grabbed my book, and cranked the water. I discovered a small hotel-sized Bath & Body Works body wash that was lime verbena scented, which according to the internet, was discontinued in 2011. The smell brought me back to the years of loitering in the mall when I was 14 — I could envision the neon displays of body products and feel the cheap fabric of the clothes my friends and I would flip through at the Wet Seal next door. It was intoxicating.
A third of the way through filling the tub, the water became lukewarm. Then it became cold. I shifted around with my book, trying to find a way to keep myself warm. After ten minutes with goosebumps, I gave up. “It’s not worth it,” I thought.
What I thought about this week
Although the bath was ultimately disappointing, what kept me hanging on through the cold water was the high of huffing that sweet lime and verbena. There is something so powerful, and ultimately, so disruptive, about scent. It is tied to memory in a way no other sense can compare.
I still remember my first perfume that I used religiously — it was called “Tasty” and I bought it at a Hot Topic in the same mall where I went to Bath & Body Works. I know you’re dying to see it:
I can smell this picture.
I can imagine it perfectly in my head. I’m wearing eyeliner. I’m putting on cheap beaded necklaces. I’m burning my hair with a hair straightener.
I can describe it to you, but without the actual smell (when will smell-o-vision be invented?), and without the context, I’m sure it means next to nothing to you.
Instead, think about your first perfume, or deodorant, or coming home to your favorite food being cooked. The smell involves a whole setting: where you were, what you were doing, how you looked, how you felt. It’s hard to put into words.
The New Yorker article, How to Make Sense of Scents, begs the question,
“Can language ever capture the mysterious world of smells?”
The author admits,
“Talking about smells can feel a little like talking about dreams—often tedious, rarely satisfying.”
Turns out scent is intensely personal and intensely subjective, often making it hard to communicate to others. Your “sweet hot garbage air” maybe someone else’s “dying flowers.” You know?
I run into this problem all the time when talking about wine. “Can you really smell all that in there?”
It’s less about getting scents “right” than it is building a common vocabulary. When I was first blind-tasting, I was smelling every fruit at the grocery store. I was building my “ABC’s” of scent. Breaking down the different compounds in wine then, was like writing a sentence (scent-ence… get it?). I took all the building blocks I learned and strung them together: citrus and tropical fruits (papaya) with chives + green bell peppers and a bit of rocks = Sauvignon Blanc.
Yet, someone else might describe: pineapple and melon with hints of armpit and racy sea air = Sauvignon Blanc.
We would both be right. And we would both be experiencing two different versions of the same truth.
And inherent in this is the beauty of scent: that it remains tied to our own experiences of the world. And the true pleasure of sharing a great wine is like a comfortable silence with a good friend: complete connection in a moment that is both unanimous and at odds all at the same time.
What I drank this week
Domaine des Ardoisières, ‘Schiste,’ Savoy, France, Vin des Allobroges IGP 2018 $50ish
This is a very cool wine. At least, that’s how Oscar introduced it to me. A delicate light yellow / white wine, this bottle had surprising depth and vibrancy. The domaine is headed by Brice Ormont, who is known for his work in Champagne. Unsurprisingly, some of those familiar champagne flavors come through despite a wildly different blend of grapes: Roussane, Jacquère, Mondeuse, and Malvousie. It’s like an indie band that samples Madonna songs: esoteric and obscure on the surface, but with an undeniably catchy hook. The wine tastes like ripe apples and peaches, white lilies, and beeswax. Would 100% drink again.
Vajra Langhe Freisa ‘Kyè’ 2015 $46
Wish you could smell. This wine is fruity, bright, and zippy. It’s medium-bodied with a heap of red fruit, but also some brooding notes of blackberry and pepper. So food friendly. Great at the table. Performs well under pressure. Good family wine. It’s coming from Italy, from the land of Nebbiolo — but isn’t Nebbiolo. It’s like Nebbiolo’s little brother (who skateboards and is way more fun anyway).
What I liked this week
I cannot stop listening to this song. I probably played it 25+ times this week. (And shoutout to the Mean Girls soundtrack, there are some bangers on there).
Wearing a face mask while sleeping. Total game changer, and now I can’t sleep without one.
Camille being a fluffy, stinky little brat in this picture. But I love her.
The mediocre, yet addicting Netflix show: The Serpent.
The INCREDIBLE, tender, and heartbreaking film Minari — which, in my opinion, should have won best picture over Nomadland. Nomadland sucked… like, it was SO boring and tried way too hard. But that’s just me.
The best TikTok I’ve seen in a while about Jesus and Wine. Just watch it. It’s very…. Monty Python humor.
Falling asleep on my couch 4/5 nights due to pure exhaustion.
The fact that I dropped a spare pair of my jeans (sometimes work requires an outfit change) in the street by work and one of my kind coworkers was looking out and picked them up for me before they got ran over by a car. Sometimes gratitude comes in the weirdest forms.
My unhealthy obsession with someday buying the exact same Cloud Sofa as Kendall Jenner. I mean, it’s a beaut.
Alright, I’m cutting myself off. It’s time for bed. See you next week.
Thanks for reading!
Enthusiastically,
Kate
Thank you for always finding words to take us to other places. I remember being a little girl, and when the smell of fresh cut grass made me feel like I was in another summer when I was even a littler girl I felt scared by the feeling - like I was being taken away from the "now." Later I understood how the sense of smell is so closely tied to memory. Good writing also takes us back to our memories, so thank you for that moment!
As usual thoroughly loved column. And yes I can still smell the first perfume I bought at the dime store soooo many years ago. Hugs