Mushroom season is just beginning. We comb wooded areas in search of Chanterelles. The forest floor smells of pine needles, decaying plant matter, and moist earth. Undergrowth is minimal, the perfect environment for little mushrooms.
I pick an apricot-colored chanterelle from its spongy moss bed. The light fruit aroma of it matches its color. Into the bag it goes.
Several paces away, clustered around a rotted tree stump, I see more of them. I'm like a child again, hunting Easter eggs. No dress this time. No basket, gloves, or shiny patent shoes. But the excitement of discovery is just the same as I remember it.
Days later I'm at the stables picking blackberries. As Dante' rides her horse and Maxwell plays, I stand before the prickly vines filling a small bucket. It is hot and the sun brings the odor of the berries to my nose. Hot, sticky, and sweet, they smell of late summer and fresh pies.
I shuffle my feet trying to angle my way to a better picking position without getting scratched by the vines. This crushes the wild mint under my feet. Inhaling deeply brings the cool refreshing scent deep into my lungs. Combined with the jammy sweetness of the berries, it is a gratifying moment.
Not all the smells here are wonderful. Low tide in the bay makes us look suspiciously at each other, wondering which of us was the 'offender'. " I swear I didn't!", vows the accused. "It's low tide!"
There is the pungency in spring of the skunk cabbage, the pervasive odor of 'cow' at the dairy farm, and the fishiness of the oyster processing plant.
Having said that, however, I wouldn't change any of it. After all these years, it all just smells like home.
-E
