Like This

You know those smells that everyone always talks about that remind them of home? Apple pie and freshly cut grass and all that jazz? I've never been too fond of those smells. Apple pie smells too sweet, freshly cut grass smells too sticky. And it used to worry me because I thought there must be something fundamentally wrong with me, to not like such homey, American smells. Of course, it occurs to me now that this might be because...um...I wasn't raised in America. At least, not at first. And maybe the homey smell associations are made early in life.

McMoose and I often have the following conversation:
Me: Ooh, this smells like India!
McMoose: Um. What does India smell like?
Me: Like this.

We walked into a clothing store yesterday and McMoose took a deep breath and said, "Ohh, this is what India smells like." And in case you're not familiar with the smell, "this" is a mixture of sandalwood and coffee and newly printed paper and dust and people and linen, all rolled into one and baked at 100 degrees for a couple of centuries. For me, this smells like home. For McMoose, this probably smells like jet lag and an endless afternoon of sari shopping.