Smells Like Love to Me

I have some lotion at work. It’s a lavender/geranium-scented blend of love, a smell that normally implies a massage or facial is imminent.

That person, by the way, the one that should be holding that bottle in her hand and asking me if I’d rather hear the lilting sounds of the Celtic fog or the dulcet tones of piano concertos has so far failed to appear at my desk.

But a girl can hope, yes?

They say that the sense of smell is a powerful memory-nudger. OK, that’s not actually what they say, I’m sure, but it’s how I remember it. I like the idea of something nudging me to remember. Not a big push, just a quiet little “hey, you remember that time…”

A friend of mine recently made me lunch, a lasagna, a delicious layering of all things good with just the right amount of oregano.

Now there’s an herb that brings me back.

Oregano is a sneaky little thing, and was once purchased in the belief that it was marijuana.

Not by me, of course, but by someone close to me. At my request. With my money.

We’ll talk of this another time.

The smell of oregano – in food, not smoked in a bong – has always reminded me of my father.

My father, master salesman, teller of jokes both clean and corny, is quite a good cook; and I spent many afternoons, as a child, under his tutelage.

His meatballs haunt me still.

“Go ahead, take your rings off,” he’d say. “We’re gonna get in there and squish all these ingredients together. And don’t bother washing your hands. It’s a secret ingredient.”

Have you spent much time with your hands in a meatball mixture? It’s a cold, greasy affair.

My dad says strange little things, things like your unwashed hands being a secret ingredient, primarily to see whether you’re paying attention or if you’re among the walking daft, little things that he doesn’t necessarily mean to be taken at face value. He even writes them down; and I have recipes in his handwriting that say things like “add a mouthful of warm water” or “add 12 to 14 peas”.

He was kidding, by the way, about the hand-washing; although now that I think of it, I don’t recall if he washed his hands or not…

It’s Sunday, it’s a beautiful day, and I’m off to make lasagna.

And, no. That’s not code for something else.