10/09/2021
Floyd
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Roast Beef Memories
It was bound to happen. From somewhere, a brush of parsley dots the middle of your idyll. Someone hisses at the old oil in the barbecue charcoal. There's too much lovage in the salad dressing. It brands the roast beef on the garden dish, the greasy river of herb butter sparkling over the soft meat, creeping onto the rapunzel. There is warm earth, but you don't see it, it turns the smoke from the fire in your face, just sometimes for a moment. Then you stare again at the cattle. And the butter, which becomes one with the Maggikraut and congeals at the lamb's lettuce.
**
Christopher Brosius hates conventional perfumes. Fragrances should be works of art, journeys on which we boldly embark. "Smell evokes - far more powerfully than any other sense - the EMOTION on which [a] memory was initially formed." he quotes modern scent research. So he's not concerned with a photorealistic memory that a fragrance should create, but with the emotion on which the memory is built.
So what do we emotionally associate with a bunch of parsley slipping into the field salad with the herb butter from the roast beef, into a salad dressing with Maggi dripping on a wood fire? What does it do to us when we sit for hours with our faces bent over our plates, so close that we don't really notice the garden or the campfire, just the butter slowly growing cold with the lovage? One can fathom that now.
(With thanks to Chizza)
**
Christopher Brosius hates conventional perfumes. Fragrances should be works of art, journeys on which we boldly embark. "Smell evokes - far more powerfully than any other sense - the EMOTION on which [a] memory was initially formed." he quotes modern scent research. So he's not concerned with a photorealistic memory that a fragrance should create, but with the emotion on which the memory is built.
So what do we emotionally associate with a bunch of parsley slipping into the field salad with the herb butter from the roast beef, into a salad dressing with Maggi dripping on a wood fire? What does it do to us when we sit for hours with our faces bent over our plates, so close that we don't really notice the garden or the campfire, just the butter slowly growing cold with the lovage? One can fathom that now.
(With thanks to Chizza)
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