Jany Sora Dora 2023

It wasn't that I didn't want to visit my great-grandmother... okay, maybe a little. As a child, you don't think that a meeting with an 89-year-old lady will be the highlight of your day. But what can I say? The apple pie made it all worthwhile. More on that later.

It was one of only a few meetings with my great-grandmother Johanna, and also the last, and the setting could have come straight out of one of those movies where old family stories suddenly unfold into great dramas. While the big drama didn't happen, this day etched itself into my memory.

We met in the depths of Bavaria in her apartment on the 12th floor of a high-rise, one of those typical concrete blocks from a time when people thought big gray walls were the future. But the balcony? Breathtakingly beautiful! The view looked like it had been painted for a postcard. Sunshine breaking through cotton clouds, mountains with snow on their peaks, forests below, gently flowing streams, and plenty of cows going about their business.

My great-grandmother was quiet, almost a bit intimidating. No loving chatter, no "Oh dear, how much you've grown." She had that look that people get when they've solved more problems in life than they've baked cakes. At least, that's what I thought at that time.

Let's start from the beginning: Before we even stepped onto that legendary balcony, she dragged me into a store for traditional folk costumes that tailored and sold dirndls. I, a North German to the core, had never felt more like a tourist than in that place. My great-grandmother marched in, fixed a saleswoman with her piercing gaze, and not ten minutes later, I was holding a dirndl. No one discussed it, no one asked if I wanted it. It was just clear: I was getting one.
Today I know it was a gift for my school enrollment and must have been incredibly expensive. As a child, you don't appreciate such things.

In the changing room, I tried to squeeze myself into the dress alone. For some reason (probably due to the handmade nature), there was still a needle in it, and I stepped on it, barefoot. Ouch. Blood dripped onto the already red carpet (probably exactly for this reason), and I whimpered a bit while great-grandma waited outside with her arms crossed. I showed her my bleeding sole, and she shrugged. "Yeah, so? It'll pass." No sympathy, no band-aid. Instead: "Come on, there's apple pie."

Once we arrived at the apartment, the cake was already in the oven. She had prepared it before we even left, as if she had sensed that things would escalate with me in that store. It smelled heavenly; I would have willingly stayed with her for a week just for that scent. Cinnamon, apple, butter, the perfect scent therapy.
With a waving hand gesture, she indicated for me to sit down. "Eat!" she commanded as she finally placed the steaming cake on the table of her fabulous balcony.

And then we sat there, twelve stories high, in the midst of this gray high-rise, yet floating above it all. The apple pie was dangerously good; it was a masterpiece. Juicy, soft, sweet-sour apples, perfectly spaced raisins as if she had measured their distance with a ruler, a hint of caramel, and a buttery crust, crispy yet soft at the same time. I'm not exaggerating; it was the absolute revelation.
I gathered my courage and said, "This is the best apple pie I've ever eaten." She merely raised an eyebrow, as if I had stated the obvious. No praise for her own baking skills, just a brief nod and a curt "the recipe is old."
That was it for conversation that day, and we ate until the sun slowly set behind the picturesque mountains and the lights in the little town came on.

That's how she was, great-grandma Johanna. Tough, quiet, intimidating, but with an apple pie that made all words unnecessary. The best memories sometimes lie on a plate.

I smell Jany, and I'm back there: in that huge concrete block almost above the clouds, even the bottle reminds me of it, with a foot that hurts a bit and a smile that I well hid back then but was still there. I even interpret the name Jany as a version of Johanna because it fits so beautifully into the overall picture. Jany smells like steaming, warm apple pie. So real that it's hard to believe this is just a fragrance and not an actual cake. It's the most beautiful, authentic gourmand I've ever encountered. Almost too real.

This lovely, fruity, buttery heart note lasts about 4 hours, after which it merges with the skin into a scent of cookie-vanilla dough. Almond also becomes very present here, somewhat marzipan-like. Still extremely high quality, by no means sticky sweet. However, at this point, the scent becomes interchangeable, and it could also be Black Tie, Vanilla West Indies, and so on. After about 6-8 hours, it becomes very close to the skin and now forms a warm, enveloping aura.

Jany is a winter fragrance for me. It smells festive, warm, perhaps even comforting. I wouldn't want to wear it at temperatures above 10 degrees; then it becomes a burden.

The best apple pie of my life, captured in this perfume.