Jesus, the house smells like anchovies, because I cooked with them for dinner and then, the dog and I went out for a walk and when I opened the door, the cold air flowing inside, the anchovies were there with their sharp, fishy smell to them that that dog must love and feel at home in, but I find atrocious, now, a few hours after the fact.
In the morning, it’s the coffee. I make the coffee, in the moka pot, the Italian one, the medium one, the one that has been used and used and is ready for retirement but not quite yet, and after our morning walk, the dog and I, the door opens, and I smell the coffee in the air.
I tell a friend and they say, it is the smell of Italy, the smell of Italians on you, and I laugh, but know it’s right because I can’t put together some pasta for dinner without the fishy-ness, I can’t start a morning with anything but the coffee of the gods that pours from the moka, the strength it gives. If you only knew.
Later, afternoon now, the dog and I walk to a bookstore in town, and I realize it doesn’t even smell of books.
I love this, especially the last sentence/observation.