I try to paint a pretty picture about what's going on here, so that you can use your imagination to fill in all the sensory notes I am merely describing. I wish this could be more all-encompassing sometimes, so that I could offer a more immersive experience. I'd love to offer audio of the sound of crickets chirping that I'm listening to now as I type. (Full disclosure: I'm sitting on my bed with the laptop, and the crickets are Agnes' dinner for the week, in her cage on my dresser.) You could hear how frequently Murray barks to defend the Park from all comers, and then you could tell how blissfully silent it is in comparison while he is off at sleep-away camp for two weeks. You could hear Rabbit's funny little bark-quack that is unlike any other cat I've ever heard, or how Athena whispers my name in the tiniest, breathiest peep of all time. Alfred and Jack roam the house at night, crowing over their conquests, and I can tell the difference between Jackie's pride and Alfred's confusion, when he calls out in a confused accent, "Hello?" (Clear as day, I swear to you.)
I've done all I can to share tastes. I have written out recipe after recipe, and made meal suggestions for you all to recreate at home or use my food sketches as a jumping off point. I am still thinking frequently about the form and scope of my cookbook that I'm working on, but not as actively right now while the business of real estate is finally starting to pay off for me.
But it was smells that inspired me this time. I was out in the back yard, watering the coreopsis I bought on clearance (I had to have it: the variety was "Jethro Tull," and I'm enough of an old prog rock nerd to neeeed that), and I noticed that my white rose was finally blooming profusely. I leaned over to smell, and the blooms were blissfully fragrant. This is my driving factor in choosing roses. I get so upset when the rose bouquets in stores smell no more sweet than the plastic in which they are wrapped. The smell of flowers is vitally important to my sense of well-being. I love almost all of them, from heady roses to sweet alyssum, from spicy carnations to pungent marigolds. I love the smell of geranium stems when you snap off a spent blossom. I get right up close to nemesia to find its delicate scent. I feel transported to childhood trips to Six Flags when I smell giant mounds of petunias. I pet lavender to release its fragrance. The only ones I really despise are the lilies. They're pretty to look at, but ever since the tiger lily-based arrangements at the hotel where I worked sent me into debilitating morning sickness with pregnancy number one, I can't stand the smell of them.
Not every smell here is fantastic. I won't lie. It's a bit more manageable around here with Murray at camp for more than just the sound. When he has a bad night in the garage, we have a bad morning until the smell of fresh brewed coffee can overpower it. Having spent the entire day in the basement today (it being a full day of Must Watch TV that may resonate in our body politic for generations), I am painfully aware of the funk that comes in from the two crawl spaces. I don't know how to fight that, but it's on my list of what to fix around here. I just light candles and burn incense and do all those Boulder (county) hippie things to improve the scent profile of the house.
And flowers. Lots and lots of flowers. If only you could smell them.
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