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Scents Quotes

Browse 119 quotes about Scents.

Scents Quotes

“As for the smells I associate with her, I was a bit of a swot too, so I love all the stationery aromas: the woody/metallic aroma of pencil shavings, the flat winey smell of ink, the sticky sweetness of a leaking biro and- my favorite- the almost talcum-powder softness of a new exercise book. For her veggie diet there is the powerful grassiness of leafy vegetables, the caramel of sweet potatoes, carrots and beetroots roasting, and the sulfurous note of brassicas. The nutty starchiness of brown rice and other whole grains. The green tang of fresh herbs, warm ginger. The bite of garlic and the spiciness of coriander seeds, cardamom, turmeric and chili. White flowers for her youthful freshness and lemon for her mental sharpness. So my scents for a daughter are: Gold Heart v. 4 by Map of the Heart Botanical Essence No. 20 Rose by Liz Earle (it has a carrot seed note in it) Wild Green by Bronley White Musk by The Body Shop Neroli by Annick Goutal Cristalle by Chanel”

DaughterVegetablesSpicesScentsHerbalPerfumesStationeryAromas
Book:The Scent of You
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“She passed a fruit smoothie stand as one of its workers chopped up a whole pineapple using a hand ax with mesmerizing speed and skill, releasing atomized juice with each whack; it was glorious to catch wind of the tropical sweetness. She sniffed her wrist again, noticing new fruity facets of the perfume. Though that was just one of the riot of aromas that surrounded her: fragrant steam billowing from the sizzling cooktop of a Cuban sandwich vendor, carrying the mouthwatering scent of pulled pork; the peaty, mossy smell from a vendor selling potted plants and bonsai trees; the earthy patchouli of the CBD head shop; the buttery, slightly sour notes from racks of leather jackets and purses; all laced with the piquant odor of sticky summer bodies moving slowly past one another.”

PerfumeScentsMerchandiseVendorsAromas
Book:Full Bloom
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“They drank from a spring which filled an ancient stone trough behind the ruin. Beyond it lay overgrown beds and plants John had never set eyes on before: tall resinous fronds, prickly shrubs, long grey-green leaves hot to the tongue. Nestling among them he found the root whose scent drifted among the trees like a ghost, sweet and tarry. He knelt and pressed it to his nose. 'That was called silphium.' His mother stood behind him. 'It grew in Saturnus's first garden.' She showed him the most ancient trees in the orchards, their gnarled trunks cloaked in grey lichen. Palm trees had grown there too once, she claimed. Now even their stumps had gone. Each day, John left the hearth to forage in the wreckage of Belicca's gardens. His nose guided him through the woods. Beyond the chestnut avenue, the wild skirrets, alexanders and broom grew in drifts. John chased after rabbits or climbed trees in search of birds' eggs. He returned with mallow seeds or chestnuts that they pounded into meal then mixed with water and baked on sticks. The unseasonal orchards yielded tiny red and gold-streaked apples, hard green pears and sour yellow cherries.”

ForestPlantsFruitsScentsMother And SonOrchardsJohn SaturnallSilphium
Book:John Saturnall's Feast
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“Clearings opened on either side. Familiar smells drifted in the air: fennel, skirrets and alexanders, then wild garlic, radishes and broom. John looked about while his mother tramped ahead. Then a new scent rose from the wild harvest, strong in John's nostrils. He had smelt it the night the villagers had driven them up the slope. Now, as his mother pushed through a screen of undergrowth, he saw its origin. Ranks of fruit trees rose before him, their trunks shaggy with lichen, their branches decked with pink and white blossom. John and his mother walked forward into an orchard. Soon apple trees surrounded them, the sweet scent heavy in the air. Pears succeeded them, then cherries, then apples again. But surely the blossom was too late, John thought. Only the trees' arrangement was familiar for the trunks were planted in diamonds, five to a side. He knew it from the book. The heavy volume bumped against his mother's leg. He gave her a curious look but she seemed unsurprised by the orchards. As the scent of blossom faded, another teased his nostrils, remembered from the same night. Lilies and pitch. Looking ahead, John saw only a stand of chestnuts overwhelmed by ivy, the glossy leaves blurring the trunks and boughs into a screen.”

HerbsForestScentsMother And SonFruit TreesValeBlossomsOrchardsJohn Saturnall
Book:John Saturnall's Feast
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“It's been over a year since they've visited their son's market. As they walk through the parking lot they take in a number of improvements. Brian admires the raised garden beds made of cedar planks that flank the sides of the lot. There are stalks of tomatoes, staked beans, baskets of green herbs- oregano, lavender, fragrant blades of lemongrass and pointed curry leaf. The planter of baby lettuces has a chalkboard hung from its side: "Just add fork." A wheelbarrow parked by the door is heaped with bright coronas of sunflowers, white daisies, jagged red ginger and birds-of-paradise. Avis feels a leap of pride as they enter the market: the floor of polished bamboo, the sky-blue ceiling, the wooden shelves- like bookshelves in a library. And the smells. Warm, round billows of baking bread, roasting garlic and onions and chicken.”

ProduceFlowersHerbsSeasoningsScentsMarketMother And SonAvis MuirStanley Muir
Book:Birds of Paradise
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“Roses and violets from summer gardens, sun-drenched Sicilian lemons squeezed of their juice and mingled with juniper from the frozen north. Saffron threads and gold leaf from the Indies waited to be turned into something magical. And contained deep within all of this was a smile that flooded him with warmth, a pair of blue eyes, and the scent of chocolate...”

FlowersSpicesLemonsScentsEssencesJeanne Clermont
Book:The Confectioner's Tale
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“At the door to the shop, a bell tinkled, and moments later they seemed to enter the very flowering of lavender. The scent was all around them; it curled and diffused in the air with a sweet warmth and subtlety, then burst with a peppery, musky intensity. The blind girls moved into another room. There they arranged themselves expectantly around a long wooden table, Mme Musset welcomed them, and a cork was pulled with a squeaky pop. "This is pure essence of lavender, grown on the Valensole plateau," said Madame. "It is in a glass bottle I am sending around to the right for you all to smell. Be patient, and you will get your turn." Other scents followed: rose and mimosa and oil of almond. Now that they felt more relaxed, some of the other girls started being silly, pretending to sniff too hard and claiming the liquid leapt up at them. Marthe remained silent and composed, concentrating hard. Then came the various blends: the lavender and rosemary antiseptic, the orange and clove scent for the house in winter, the liqueur with the tang of juniper that made Marthe unexpectedly homesick for her family's farming hamlet over the hills to the west, where as a child she had been able to see brightness and colors and precise shapes of faces and hills and fruits and flowers.”

ScentsLavenderHerbalApothecaryFloralEssencesMarthe LincelBlind SightedDelphine Musset
Book:The Sea Garden
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“The first time I smelled the soft, powdery rocks of Somalian frankincense James brought back from traveling; the whiff of a broken dahlia stem or inhaled green osmanthus-flower tea was like stepping through the back of the wardrobe into Narnia. Likewise crocuses, charcoal and umeshu, the citrine-hued Japanese plum wine.”

ScentsEssences
Book:A Thousand Feasts: Small Moments of Joy… A Memoir of Sorts
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“Quinnipeague in August was a lush green place where inchworms dangled from trees whose leaves were so full that the eaten parts were barely missed. Mornings meant 'thick o' fog' that caught on rooftops and dripped, blurring weathered gray shingles while barely muting the deep pink of rosa rugosa or the hydrangea's blue. Wood smoke filled the air on rainy days, pine sap on sunny ones, and wafting through it all was the briny smell of the sea.”

WeatherAugustColorsMaineScentsEarthyMorning LightQuinnipeague
Book:Sweet Salt Air
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“My Easter smells are the cinnamon and mixed spices in the hot cross buns, and the rosemary and mint sauce with the roast lamb. The grassy tang of rhubarb and real muddy wet grass from the egg rolling. And of course, lots and lots of milk chocolate. My scents for Easter are: Angel by Thierry Mugler Anima Dulcis by Arquiste Musc Maori by Parfumerie Générale Blue North by Agonist Opium by Yves Saint Laurent English Pear & Freesia by Jo Malone London La Tulipe by Byredo”

ChocolateEasterScentsSmellsEarthyHerbalPerfumesGourmand
Book:The Scent of You
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“The following day, the scent Garrance has created is soon dispersed through the restaurant via an electric diffuser---the aromas of citrus, coconut, and ginger hitting me in waves. Ravenous, I set to making a roasted red pepper and garlic hummus, incorporating the urfa biber to see if it really makes a difference. I dip my finger into the dark purplish-brown flakes to taste, and I'm blown away by the earthiness of the flavors. I smack my lips, tasting undertones of raisins, chocolate, and maybe a little coffee. Even though I've made a crudité platter with some pan-seared padron peppers sprinkled with sea salt and homemade garlic-infused naan, I can't help shoving spoonfuls of the hummus into my eager mouth.”

CookingFlavorsScentsRestaurantAtmosphericEarthyHummus
Book:The Spice Master at Bistro Exotique
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“Wait until the truffles hit the dining room---absolute sex," said Scott. When the truffles arrived the paintings leaned off the walls toward them. They were the grand trumpets of winter, heralding excess against the poverty of the landscape. The black ones came first and the cooks packed them up in plastic quart containers with Arborio rice to keep them dry. They promised to make us risotto with the infused rice once the truffles were gone. The white ones came later, looking like galactic fungus. They immediately went into the safe in Chef's office. "In a safe? Really?" "The trouble we take is in direct proportion to the trouble they take. They are impossible," Simone said under her breath while Chef went over the specials. "They can't be that impossible if they are on restaurant menus all over town." I caught her eye. "I'm kidding." "You can't cultivate them. The farmers used to take female pigs out into the countryside, lead them to the oaks, and pray. They don't use pigs anymore, they use well-behaved dogs. But they still walk and hope." "What happened to the female pigs?" Simone smiled. "The scent smells like testosterone to them. It drives them wild. They destroyed the land and the truffles because they would get so frenzied." I waited at the service bar for drinks and Sasha came up beside me with a small wooden box. He opened it and there sat the blanched, malignant-looking tuber and a small razor designed specifically for it. The scent infiltrated every corner of the room, heady as opium smoke, drowsing us. Nicky picked up the truffle in his bare hand and delivered it to bar 11. He shaved it from high above the guest's plate. Freshly tilled earth, fields of manure, the forest floor after a rain. I smelled berries, upheaval, mold, sheets sweated through a thousand times. Absolute sex.”

MushroomsScentsAphrodisiacTrufflesEarthy
Book:Sweetbitter
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“A second-hand bookshop draws me in a as a moth to a candle. Each shop is a small shrine to the power of beauty and words. Tightly packed shelves of old hardback novels; heavy tomes on art and design; teetering piles of poetry. There are copies of the Children's Encyclopedia used as a doorstop and wooden crates of paperbacks going for a song. Some are rare, with a price to match, others a fraction of their original cost. A book for everyone, I guess. Yes, it's the thought of words put together with such care, the pages whose surface has been worn by years of handling; the tired bindings and torn-edged covers where a book has been in less kind hands than it should. (A chance to give a damaged book a kinder home.) But even more, it is the smell that makes me want to enter every second-hand bookshop I pass. A smell that is dusty, a cross between an old leather saddle and a country church.”

ScentsOld BooksBookshopSecondhand
Book:A Thousand Feasts: Small Moments of Joy… A Memoir of Sorts
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“A small silver-handled shaving brush... a folding-blade razor... an empty soap dish... a lidded porcelain box with a silver top. Unable to resist, Beatrix lifted the top and looked inside. She found three pairs of cuff links, two in silver, one in gold, a watch chain, and a brass button. Replacing the lid, Beatrix picked up the shaving brush and experimentally touched her cheek with it. The bristles were silky and soft. With the movement of the soft fibers, a pleasant scent was released from the brush. A spicy hint of shaving soap. Holding the brush closer to her nose, Beatrix drew in the scent... masculine richness... cedar, lavender, bay leaves. She imagined Christopher spreading lather over his face, stretching his mouth to one side, all the masculine contortions she had seen her father and brother perform in the act of removing bristle from their faces.”

ScentsBeatrix HathawayChristopher PhelanBrushShaving Cream
Book:Love in the Afternoon
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“But I know that I’ve always had a connection to plants, an ability to care for them in a way that makes them thrive quickly, vibrantly, fragrantly. And among the flowers that I grow… I’m able to sense when there is a fragrance that will return a person to a forgotten moment in time, a long-buried memory. Scents have always been heightened for me… the scents of the flowers that I grow most of all.”

FlowersGardenerMagical RealismScentsLost Memories
Book:The Memory Gardener
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“Isabel felt soft and yielding; her blouse felt soft. Everything about her seemed soft, and she smelled of dried flowers, rosemary, fresh baked bread. This whole kitchen seemed alive with a peculiar energy; in the old fixtures and furniture, Tess sensed a place where cooking and eating had happened for decades, where people gathered to sample life's sweetest pleasures.”

KitchenScentsSoftIsabel JohansenTess And Isabel
Book:The Apple Orchard
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“She picked through the bits of jewelry, the stud earrings and ruby ring that belonged to their mother, Shirin. There was something almost meditative about this ritual of hers, combing through the photos and small keepsakes, even if she touched on some painful memories. It was as if her fingers were actually tracing the milestones each piece represented. Her hand closed on a smooth, round object, something resembling a marble egg. It was a miniature bar of lotus soap, still in its wrapper, bought on their last trip to the 'hammam'. The public bathhouse had been a favorite spot of theirs, a place the three of them liked to go to on Thursdays, the day before the Iranian weekend. Marjan held the soap to her nose. She took a deep breath, inhaling the downy scent of mornings spent washing and scrubbing with rosewater and lotus products. All at once she heard the laughter once again, the giggles of women making the bathing ritual a party more than anything else. The 'hammam' they had attended those last years in Iran was situated near their apartment in central Tehran. Although not as palatial as the turquoise and golden-domed bathhouse of their childhood, it was still a grand building of hot pools and steamy balconies, a place of gossip and laughter. The women of the neighborhood would gather there weekly to untangle their long hair with tortoiseshell combs and lotus powder, a silky conditioner that left locks gleaming like onyx uncovered. For pocket change, a 'dalak' could be hired by the hour. These bathhouse attendants, matronly and humorous for all their years spent whispering local chatter, would scrub at tired limbs with loofahs and mitts of woven Caspian seaweed. Massages and palm readings accompanied platters of watermelon and hot jasmine tea, the afternoons whiled away with naps and dips in the perfumed aqueducts regulated according to their hot and cold properties.”

MemorySoapScentsMarjan AminpourMementosBathhouseBath Products
Book:Rosewater and Soda Bread
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“Ariel moved farther in, picking up and putting down the disgusting little pieces of bric-a-brac. Among all the horror was an ironically delicate vanity covered in mother-of-pearl- and, intriguingly, all manner of exquisite little glass bottles. Scents from the east, oils from the west, attar of roses, nut butter, extract of myrrh, sandalwood decoctions, jasmine hydrosols... Everything to make someone smell exquisite. Or to mask whatever it was she really smelled like, Ariel thought wryly. Or were the oils and butters for more medicinal reasons- for the cecaelia's skin? Ariel found herself looking at her own hands, rubbing them over each other lightly. Last time she had only been in the Dry World for a few days. Was it- literally- drying? Was it difficult or painful, for creatures from the sea to remain for months battered by void and air, despite their magic? Ariel shivered. Magic didn't make everything simpler. Crossing the thresholds of worlds was no minor thing.”

ScentsLotionSkin CareUrsulaSea WitchVanessaOilsOdors
Book:Part of Your World
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“Her hand closed on a smooth, round object, something resembling a marble egg. It was a miniature bar of lotus soap, still in its wrapper, bought on their last trip to the 'hammam'. The public bathhouse had been a favorite spot of theirs, a place the three of them liked to go to on Thursdays, the day before the Iranian weekend. Marian held the soap to her nose. She took a deep breath, inhaling the downy scent of mornings spent washing and scrubbing with rosewater and lotus products. All at once she heard the laughter once again, the giggles of women making the bathing ritual a party more than anything else. The 'hammam' they had attended those last years in Iran was situated near their apartment in central Tehran. Although not as palatial as the turquoise and golden-domed bathhouse of their childhood, it was still a grand building of hot pools and steamy balconies, a place of gossip and laughter. The women of the neighborhood would gather there weekly to untangle their long hair with tortoiseshell combs and lotus powder, a silky conditioner that left locks gleaming like onyx uncovered. For pocket change, a 'dalak' could be hired by the hour. These bathhouse attendants, matronly and humorous for all their years spent whispering local chatter, would scrub at tired limbs with loofahs and mitts of woven Caspian seaweed. Massages and palm readings accompanied platters of watermelon and hot jasmine tea, the afternoons whiled away with naps and dips in the perfumed aqueducts regulated according to their hot and cold properties.”

MemorySoapScentsMarjan AminpourHair CareBathhouseBath Products
Book:Rosewater and Soda Bread
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“While Lisa prepared lunch, I took it upon myself to smell each and every truffle we'd found that morning. Some were sweet and firm, and some smelled more of vinegar--- maybe they were under-ripe. Some were grassy, herblike. There were mineral elements--- quartz and slate. As I went through the pile, the associations mounted. Did I smell pine needles? Blueberries? The more I sniffed, the weirder it became. What did that sweet starchy smell remind me of? That's it--- the beginning of a good rice pudding. Lisa was cleaning the truffles with what looked like a boot brush, and as she massaged gently, the chocolate-colored soil gave way to cratered geological black; the truffle looked like a tiny meteor.”

GeographyScentsTruffles
Book:Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes
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“Barrels of oysters wrapped in seaweed came by boat from Stollport. Fat beam and trout were carried in dripping wooden boxes lined with wet straw. A great conger eel arrived in a crate large enough to hold a cannon and appeared so fearsome Mister Bunce quelled the kitchen boys' mock-screams only by bringing out Mister Stone to take his pick among the screechers. Sacks of raisins, currants, dried prunes and figs piled up in the dry larder. In the wet room, soused brawn, salted ling and gallipots of anchovies crowded the shelves and floor. In the butchery, Colin and Luke marshalled four undercooks, six men from the Estate armed with saws, a grumbling Barney Curle and his barrow to skin, draw and joint the hogs. Simeon, Tam Yallop and the other bakers lugged in sacks of meal from the Callock Marwood mill while a dray from the ale-house made journeys over the hill, past the gatehouse and into the yard until the buttery and cellar were filled with kegs and barrels. Rhenish wine arrived in a covered wagon, the dark oak tuns resting on a thick bed of bracken. Scents of cinnamon and saffron drifted out of the spice room.”

SpicesSeafoodScentsFood And WineFood PreparationMeatsDried Goods
Book:John Saturnall's Feast
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“The overpowering oriental out that had first led her there was tempered now by a much more varied and subtle fragrance palette. She could pick up strong threads of the most classic florals, rose, lily of the valley, magnolia, which Guy would have turned his nose up at before, alongside the more Mediterranean jasmine and neroli, with the warm notes of sandalwood and tonka, balanced by the bite of citrus.”

ScentsFragrancesFloralOrientalWoodsy
Book:The Scent of You
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“Gene had already cleared the soil, or had someone do it for him, who knows, and brought in a load of plants and flowers, which were sitting around in their pots. The colors were all over the place, no great scheme there, but he'd gone for scent in a big way. I only recognized a few of the flowers, but they all smelled wonderful. Lisa ticked them off for me, her mouth full of pepperoni. "Jasmine, freesia, lavender, sweet peas, alyssum, night-scented stock, scented phlox, clematis of course, and some fancy tuberose." She looked over at Gene. "You picked well. These should give her fragrance for most of the year, in turns. And some nice evening scents, too.”

FlowersScentsFragrances
Book:The Garden of Small Beginnings
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“I bring my wrist to my nose---and I'm lost in a melody of fragrances---sweet and musky. Almonds? Vanilla? Florals? A switch clicks in my brain, a feeling of exhilaration rolling through my body in waves. I'm at a loss for words. Garrance really captured something special; she knows what she's doing. "Do you like it?" I smell my wrist again, my eyes wide. "Like it? I love it. What's in it?" "A little frangipani, some ylang-ylang, a bit of almond oil, and a light sandalwood musk.”

PerfumeScentsFragrancesFloral
Book:The Spice Master at Bistro Exotique
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“The linden tree. It stood unchanged since the first time Papa Horatio had seen it, all those years ago— unchanged, Alaine thought, for perhaps centuries. Always green, always blooming, even in the middle of winter. Now, at the cresting of summer, it almost blended into the deep green of the forest, except for the perfect circle of velvet green surrounding it. That, and the scent. Ebbing like a tide on the gentle breeze that stirred the linden’s leaves, the perfume mingled the ordinary golden florals of linden blooms with strange notes of vanilla and cedar and incense.”

FairyScentsLinden Tree
Book:The Fairy Bargains of Prospect Hill
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“It was filled with a dark paste, rather than liquid. I unscrewed the cap. The smell rolled toward me, and I reared back. I could almost hear growling, the pop of a bone socket. "Civet," Claudia said, unfazed. "It takes a strong stomach to smell an animalic base note straight, don't you think? But a drop or two, down there in the bottom of a perfume? It sends that other message. Death and sex- that's what perfume's all about. You'll understand when you're older." I stared back at her. I knew about death. I knew about sex. I didn't need her to tell me. She held out another bottle, her expression bland. "Jasmine." I was cautious this time, barely sniffing the contents, but the smell was a relief- sweet, white, and creamy, almost euphoric. I felt as if I were floating in it. Just as I was about to put the bottle down, though, I caught a whiff of something else in the background, something narcotic and sticky. I inhaled more deeply, trying to pin it down. "You like it," Claudia said. For the first time, she seemed pleased with me. "Do you know what that is, that note you're searching for?" I shook my head. It was right there, but in that cool, blank room, I couldn't quite name it. "It's shit," Claudia said. She smiled, slow and lazy. "Technically, the molecule's called indole, but a rose by any other name...”

NotesPerfumeMessageScentsShitJasmineCivet
Book:The Scent Keeper
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“The oil smelled floral and musky, like a flowery animal. She kept right on stroking my body. "It has lilac, jasmine, and musk from a rutting deer," she said. The words for the ingredients excited me. Lilac, jasmine, and musk, I said to myself. Lilac, jasmine, and musk, I must. Lilac, jasmine, and musk, I must. They sounded like an incantation. They sounded like the sexiest words in the English language.”

SexyOilScentsJasmineMuskPheromone Parfum
Book:Hothouse Flower and the Nine Plants of Desire
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“I get to prepping, slicing up fresh tarragon, the grassy floral fragrance enveloping me. I take two pieces of foil and set filets of cod on each one, followed by the salicornes. Drizzle a bit of lemon. A few razor-thin slices of garlic and lemon. A bit of salt and pepper. Paprika. Some herbes de Provence, my special blend. And, finally, the tarragon. While the fish is baking, I make the rice, deciding to add a dash of cardamom and cumin. Soon, the kitchen smells like heaven, and I feel like I'm floating on my feet. It could be the aromas emanating from the oven, or it could be my wrists, the base notes from the perfume she gave me. Finally, once the meal is ready, I plate it, adding edible violet flowers as a last-minute garnish. Before bringing Garrance her dish, I taste it. And, oh my, now I'm swept away into a fantasy of the sea---the same one I'd had before when she'd first given me the salicornes, but stronger, more intense. I'm running along the rugged beaches, and then I'm falling on the sand. I can hear the waves crashes, the calls of seagulls, the---”

SeaRiceSpicesHerbsFishSeasoningsScentsFrench Cooking
Book:The Spice Master at Bistro Exotique
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“I list what I had for breakfast. I whisper the ingredients for my signature coconut cake. I take a deep breath, the scents of a thousand shifts at the restaurant tucked into the fabric of the front seat. I start listing them too: mango and cilantro and epazote, tomatillos and roasted pepitas and tortillas. The truth is, I can't sleep without those smells tangled in my hair.”

SeasoningsScentsListing
Book:Somewhere Between Bitter and Sweet
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“When I pulled the tall, narrow door open, a barrage of smells assaulted me. First a sweet blend of cinnamon and cloves with earthy undertones of thyme and oregano, then a piney whiff of rosemary and a heady punch of basil. The pungent mix stunned me, and I stood still, letting it envelop me. Equally dazzling was the knowledge that many of those spices had come from remote parts of the world. They were previous commodities carried over deserts and mountains and oceans, too expensive for any but the richest kitchens.”

SpicesHerbsSeasoningsScents
Book:The Book of Unholy Mischief
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“Their petals are as delicate as antique lace but I grow them for their leaves, which are scented-- lemon, camphor and rose. There is Edna Popperwell's Ashby, whose leaves smell not of the advertised rose but (to this nose at least) of frankincense. Attar of Roses has furry leaves which remind me of Turkish delight, Orsett smells of balsam whilst Prince of Orange and Queen of the Lemons speak for themselves, the latter of sherbet lemons rather than the fruit. At the top of the garden is a wayward, rambling Copthorne, whose clusters of marshmallow-pink flowers are entangled amongst the bars of the old iron gate. Others are here not for their scent but for the delicate flowers. The diminutive Shannon sends her frilly parsley leaves and straggle of wandering stems over the table. She has no scent at all, but flowers that resemble salmon-pink stars, which twinkle against the watery-grey zinc of the garden table. The leaves are nothing to look at but show their magic once you rub them between finger and thumb. I use them for a spritz of inspiration as I write, but I occasionally take them into the kitchen too. If you layer their leaves amongst caster sugar in a jam jar they will infuse the crystals with the essence of lemon, orange or rose. Pick the right leaves and you have delicate, scented sugar with which to crown a summer sponge cake or to infuse in a jug of cream for raspberries.”

FlowerScentsLeavesGarnishingPelargonium
Book:A Thousand Feasts: Small Moments of Joy… A Memoir of Sorts
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“Even in its ragged state, the garden is astonishingly beautiful. The untended, untouched look of it--- and the ivy-covered walls that protect it on three sides--- only add to the air pf enchantment, of mystery, that rises from it like a shimmer of heat. It looks like something from a fairy tale, like it could have been torn from one of the picture books my mother read to me when I was a child. Here and there wishing the tangle of green, I spot flashes of purple. Is this the lavender that I caught a hint of earlier when I stepped out of my truck? I breathe in. Yes. The scent is as gentle, as soothing, as a warm bath. There are other scents, too... alluring notes that drift toward me in soft waves. Viburnum. Honeysuckle. Sage. Phlox. Roses, so many roses...”

GardenLastingFlowersHerbsScentsOvergrown
Book:The Memory Gardener
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“I remember when Vianne Rocher first moved into town all those years ago. That window, papered in orange and gold, just like a Chinese lantern. That scent of spices, and incense smoke, like something from the Arabian Nights. So many things have changed since then: now Vianne and I are almost friends. But how I resented that little shop, with its brightly colored awning, and the scent of vanilla and allspice and the bitter rasp of raw cacao drifting out into the air. How I longed to step in, to taste the wares in those glass cases! Now, I tell myself, I could. But though I do not fast for Lent, chocolate still seems one indulgence too far.”

ScentsReminiscenceTemptationsVianne Rocher
Book:The Strawberry Thief
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“I put a handful of Criollo beans into the grinder. Their scent is very far from sweet. I can smell oud, and sandalwood, and the dark scents of cumin and ambergris. Seductive, yet faintly unsavory, like a beautiful woman with unwashed hair. A moment in the grinder, and the beans are ready to use. Their volatile essence fills the air, freed from one form into another. The Maya tattooed their bodies, you know, in order to placate the wind. No, not the wind. The gods. The gods. I add hot water to the beans and allow them time to percolate. Unlike coffee beans, they release an oily kind of residue. Then I add nutmeg, cardamom and chili to make the drink that the Aztecs called xocoatl- bitter water. That bitterness is what I need.”

ChocolateBitternessExoticScentsVianne Rocher
Book:The Strawberry Thief
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“Walking around the Quarter with its horses and buggies, cobblestone streets, and kerosene lamps felt like stepping back in time, all the way back to the time when Louise was a small child living in Fayetteville. I imagined her in a linen jumper with a white collar, skipping along the cobblestones, avoiding the cracks that would break her mother's back. It was quiet outside as well as sweltering August temperatures kept tourists off the streets and residents inside their homes. The blocks felt private and sensual as Gabriel and I held hands and walked under the lush vegetation spilling from the baskets that hung off the balconies of the houses on St. Philip. I could smell the sweet olive and the jasmine and I had the pleasant sensation of knowing that they were coming from outside of my body. New Orleans was my equal in scent, and as long as it was night and the air was a degree or two cooler than in the daytime I was sure I could walk around freely without attracting any unwanted attention.”

ScentsNew Orleans French QuarterSummer Night
Book:Scent of Darkness
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“It was exciting to be off on a journey she had looked forward to for months. Oddly, the billowing diesel fumes of the airport did not smell like suffocating effluence, it assumed a peculiar pungent scent that morning, like the beginning of a new adventure, if an adventure could exude a fragrance.”

FunnyJourneyAdventureTravelFlyingExcitementVacationPollutionAirportsJetExperiencesTravelingTravellingAdventuresScentsAirportI Love To TravelI Love VacationsOdd HumorOdd Observation
Book:Brushstrokes of a Gadfly
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“She looked at the city streets coated in rain, the early light illuminating their inky blackness, their darkness beautifully framed by the lighter concrete gutters and sidewalks. Broadway looks just like a big blackberry galette, Sam thought, before shaking her head at the terrible analogy. That would have earned a C minus in English lit, she thought, but my instructors at culinary school would be proud. Sam slowed for a second and considered the streets. So would my family, she added. New York had its own otherworldly beauty, stunning in its own sensory-overload sort of way, but a jarring juxtaposition to where Sam had grown up: on a family orchard in northern Michigan. Our skyscrapers were apple and peach trees, Sam thought, seeing dancing fruit in her mind once again. She smiled as she approached Union Square Park and stopped to touch an iridescent green leaf, still wet and dripping rain, her heart leaping at its incredible tenderness in the midst of the city. She leaned in and lifted the leaf to her nose, inhaling, the scents of summer and smells of her past- fresh fruit, fragrant pine, baking pies, lake water- flooding her mind.”

New YorkMichiganScentsFruit TreesLeafSam Mullins
Book:The Recipe Box
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“He held the papers up to the moonlight. There was a little smudging, there, right where the chorus was supposed to come in with a D major triad. But it wasn't so bad. His eyes drifted from the pages to the moon, which shone clearly through his unglazed window. A bright star kept it company. A faint breeze blew, causing the thick leaves of the trees below to make shoe-like clacking noises against the castle wall. It carried with it whatever scents it had picked up on its way from the sea: sandalwood, sand, oranges, dust. Dry things, stuff of the land. Eric looked back at his music, tried to recapture the sound and feel of the ocean that had played in his head before waking, aquamarine and sweet.”

LandOceanScentsSea BreezePrince EricMusic Notation
Book:Part of Your World
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“Where did he take you?" "An island." I thought of the archipelago, those dots and dashes of land, a code you could never unlock. "What did it smell like?" she asked. I'd expected a lot of questions, but not this one. As soon as she said it, though, I knew it was the only one that mattered. The only one that would tell you what a place, or your past, was actually like. "Cedar and spruce and fir," I said. "Applewood smoke. Salt water. That metallic smell right before a storm." I was picking up speed. "Salmonberries, huckleberries, spruce on your fingertips. Wet dirt- oh, and morels." I stopped, embarrassed by my volubility. "You did get my genes," she murmured.”

ScentsIslandMothers Daughters
Book:The Scent Keeper
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