Peanut

I had distributed brochures during the autumn holidays to buy it for you for Christmas. I had no idea about the scent. I had no clue about fragrance notes, woods, oak moss, but you simply had to have it: A photographer should own and wear “Photo,” I thought.

I had no idea if it would suit you, as the scent seemed secondary to me. It was the name that mattered to me. My ignorance paired with good intentions was rewarded: Because “Photo” fit perfectly, it smelled somewhat like the little bottle from the pouring flask that always wafted in your darkroom when I visited you to avoid taking the bus home from school. Woody-sweet and herb-soapy, somewhat generic, yet anything but arbitrary.

At some point, the fragrance fell a bit out of time. It became less visible in the abundance of ever-spritzier, sportier new releases, but you wore it unfazed. Not exclusively, but continuously. I gifted it to you from time to time, as it belonged to you like your snapping finger, your beard, and your loosely fitting sweaters.

“There are still personal items in the bathroom,” said the hospice nurse as we packed your things. She opened the window and let cold air flow into the room. Outside, people hurried back and forth to do their last-minute Christmas shopping, the annual, unavoidable desperation gifts, naturally just before closing time. I went to the bathroom and looked around: Your shoes next to the oxygen tank, your lavender soap, toothbrush. At the sink was the bottle of “Photo.” I had no idea that you had it with you until the end. It was certainly not the same bottle as the one on Christmas Eve twenty-five years ago. But the same.

I pocketed it and took it home. I could no longer take you home. Completely illogical for me, after all, it was Christmas Eve. So much to do now - and yet nothing more. What does one do when their favorite person leaves? Where should one search, where find? Can Christmas even die, and how long does “never again” actually last? An empty head, a full heart, a three-quarters full bottle of “Photo” in my coat pocket.

I still have no idea. Your bottle of “Photo” is still exactly three-quarters full. I only cautiously sniff at the spray head, I lack the courage for more. The last time you sprayed it - and it should stay that way. No one but your snapping finger should ever operate the sprayer. They have also discontinued “Photo” - how cynical. But maybe that’s for the best, as it reduces the likelihood that anyone will gift it to someone else for Christmas this year. Just by pure chance, as a desperation gift just before closing time.

At least that’s what Max Frisch said. I completely agree with him; it applies to so much: We often stumble upon what we have antennas for, what we are receptive to, and what we search for more unconsciously than consciously.

So "Terre d'Iris" seemingly fell into my lap by chance when I exchanged perfumes with dear Hermia. I expected a clean, powdery, cool iris from the swap scent, as I still prefer clean fragrances the most. What did I get? First of all, a wiry, strict top note that seemed so far from my hopes that I thought, "This is a size too big for you: Better stick to your baby powder scents and all that is sold in makeup-colored bottles."

But then I admonished my hasty fast-food nose to be patient and diligently sprayed myself with "Terre d'Iris" every morning until the penny dropped: Back to square one! An old fragrance love, painfully missed because it was only available at astronomical eBay prices from questionable stocks, fluttered into my home: "Secrets d'Essences - Iris Noir." The patience of waiting for the right substitute, the patience with the masculine top note, the patience of day-to-day testing paid off. Or in other words: It was simply due.

For those who do not know my black reference iris, let me say: The top note will wake you up and invigorate you, as the citrus notes are tart. Green and herbaceous, cold and botanical, bitter and wicked. But gradually peeking out from beneath these citrus notes is the dark, frosted night iris, as the green Frenchman once bottled it. Some notes may differ, but the overall impression of the fragrance is so similar that I would call them fragrance twins. Not necessarily identical. Yet astonishingly alike.

For me, it’s grand. Certainly, however, not a win for every nose. The fragrance is, whether compared to my old love or not, cumbersome, uneven, and strange. Perhaps it’s for the super patient, perhaps more for those who are not familiar with masterpieces like "Hiris" -- like me. Nevertheless: If it is liked at all, then it is truly liked.

Eau Trouble (or: Eau Troublé) is everything but a harmless little water. As the name suggests, it is quite murky water in a pitch-black bottle. But murky does not mean that you are served Eau de Puddle, Eau de Ditch, or even drain water. Nothing of the sort. "Eau Troublé" is exceedingly and unequivocally fragrant, regardless of the expectations one brings to the scent or how olfactorily oriented one is.

How one interprets the fragrance, however, depends (I will just claim this) on whether one grew up as an outdoor child or a couch potato. Because: As an outdoor child (and only as an outdoor child), one has the following scent experience or associative area in their inner fragrance archive:

It is spring or summer, and you have spent the whole day outside. After the fifth to twentieth time of "Dinner is ready, please come inside!" you reluctantly shuffle home, dirty like a coal miner. You have a load of sand in your hair and a slightly red-cold (or alternatively: snotty) nose from the evening chill, and your overalls are stiff with dirt. A full bath would be appropriate, but since dinner is on the table, at least hands and face must undergo a deep cleaning. A quick wash in the sink is the children's washing method of choice (or torture).

Hardly has the child finished sulking and mother drawn the warm water, the child realizes that the urge to play has not yet faded. Washing up is no fun at all, but letting the wet soap slip delightfully from your hands, playing motorboat with the nail brush, or testing how much water a non-rolled-up sleeve can absorb-that's fun! This way, a good quarter of an hour can easily be wasted until the fingers are wrinkled, the soap bar mushy, and the cooling soapy water is all murky.

Freeze frame: That is the scent of "Eau Troublé"!

It is exactly this scent experience from childhood that reveals itself in all its glory to a suitably conditioned nose when enjoying "Eau Troublé": The memory of very murky soapy water cooling in the sink. Including the specific tingling spiciness of an ordinary soap bar paired with the slightly dull smell of earthy little dirty hands. Accompanying this is a hint of the fresh air and adventure still lingering in the nose and clothes-but that may be exuberant overinterpretation. The soapy water concept itself, however, is (I find) quite clearly recognizable and presumably also intended.

A couch potato's nose, however, which never had the luck of coming home dirty enough to marinate their hands in soapy water, will most likely smell rather what the fragrance pyramid suggests: A smoky-herbaceous floral composition (a bit of orange blossom, a bit of powdery iris, maybe a hint of rose) on a fine woody bed of cedar, sprinkled with deliberately unappealing citrus peel. The whole thing is consistently earthy (vetiver?) and kept cool-spicy, with a discreetly darker charm.

However, this forum is evidently populated by no few outdoor children, as the soapy massacre mental imagery rattles (if one believes the comments below and my humble opinion research) not only for me when "Eau Troublé" finds its way into the nostrils. This does not have to mean that this is the only and intended effect of the fragrance. For former little dirt birds, however, it is a plausible one.

In other words: "Eau Troublé" unites (and outed!) the outdoor children of all countries.

I'm afraid this comment is going to get inappropriately culinary. After all, "J'aime" isn't even a gourmand (at least not in the classic sense). If you haven't had dinner yet, you should postpone reading this comment: Just by reading, you fill up (and drink) on inferior, empty calories without any nutritional value.

Now I'm going to dive in, because the frustration over my latest blind purchase is so overwhelming that I'll burst if I don't vent immediately. Well: This scent, which unexpectedly joined my collection, is like a Wagyu steak drowned in ketchup. Or like a cup of Kopi Luwak ("cat coffee") mixed with canned condensed milk. Or like a sip of Château Margaux 2009-turned into punch.

What I mean is: Everything that could have made "J'aime" beautiful, valuable, and worth smelling has been reduced to a sticky sweet syrup. The fine, dark fruity base note from La Perla, which is also found in "J'aime la nuit," the distinct lily, the appetizing raspberry: You can still perceive them and eagerly stretch your olfactory receptors towards them. But unfortunately, they are swimming in ordinary, slightly caramelized crystal sugar: No nose, no matter how skilled, can overcome that.

Dear Ms. Caron, did you create this perfume on an empty stomach? If you had said something, I would have sent you a crab sandwich via UPS. Maybe you wouldn't have even brought the sugar shaker into play.

Now I'm stuck with 50 ml of sugar water and I'm annoyed that I can't kick myself in the butt (it doesn't work!). Blind purchases don't usually happen to me anymore: So how did this scent slip through? I probably assumed "J'aime la nuit" and felt secure. Epic fail! The night variant is a completely different story in every respect and much more noteworthy and wearable than the under-18 girl set that I now own.

I admit, now and then I get the urge to spray this sweet nose twister. I'll tell you when: When I plan to stuff a Double Whopper with cheese into my face. That comes in at over 800 kcal, so you have to hold back for the rest of the day. But: 2-3 sprays of "J'aime" after (!) the sinfully heavy indulgence and you can't even get down a broken rice cake until the next shower.

I think I'll keep "J'aime."

Is there the ultimate, perfect, incomparable scent of security? This is certainly up for debate. We all know that everyone has a different olfactory conditioning, each has a different scent biography, and that for everyone, the drawer labeled "security" is filled differently.

Nevertheless, there are relevant favorites in the security hit parade that are more or less timeless and cross-cultural: The scent of warm skin, mom's vanilla pudding, or grandma's baking skills. Translated into fragrance notes, these are primarily amber, vanilla, tonka, benzoin, and heliotrope.

That would already indicate a tendency, but only a rough one. Because: Those whose grandma baked terribly may despise cookie-like scents for a lifetime. Those who had the habit as a child of "revisiting" the vanilla pudding (because they couldn't stand the pudding skin) might be scarred for life and vanilla-traumatized. In short: Despite clear tendencies towards cozy, mildly sweet scents, there will be small and fine differences when it comes to the topic of "security via scent".

Nevertheless, I assert: There is one super scent of security that applies to (almost) all noses, which even the most composed people will make curl up in a fetal position in a warm corner and grin stupidly and blissfully. It is the scent of warm baby porridge! I certainly do not mean the brightly colored Hipp layered purees like "Trout with Peas on Spaghetti." I mean freshly cooked baby milk porridge. For the very, very little ones, still for the bottle (follow-up milk with semolina), for the slightly older ones, a bit less liquid for the first toothless munching with the plastic spoon.

Gustatorily, this first, so formative pleasure can later in life only be repeated or imitated in the form of panna cotta, semolina dessert, or oatmeal mush. In olfactory terms, one can indulge oneself wonderfully with Lostmarc’h. “Lann-Ael” is a flawless, authentic flashback to the idyllic, messy bib life phase: It smells milky, sweet, vanillic, steamy, warm, and soothingly grainy.

An innocent feeling of happiness to spray on, which, despite all its "edibility," is wonderfully wearable and almost inevitably attracts, delights, pampers, and reconciles stressed individuals. The distinct apple note cannot change much about this perfect baby porridge bliss, because on one hand, it is only perceptible at the beginning and quickly recedes. On the other hand, the apple note is in line with the porridge and drifts at most (and only if one wants) towards "grandma bakes apple strudel." However, this is also not the worst scent scenario.

Conclusion: An anti-stress scent that is hard to find its equal. Oxytocin in a bottle, so to speak. The unwanted side effect: “Lann-Ael” is a pronounced male magnet. I will refrain from making any misogynistic jokes here *gg*. Just this much: If a man hanging onto every hem is not too heavy to carry, then they should buy “Lann-Ael.”