Essence, Oranges, Incandescence
It was the Most Pathetic Christmas Tree ever. Even Charlie Brown would have been embarassed by this year's sad sapling. Ann and I risked our lives to get it, and had to wait for the UPS man to deliver our YakTrax to even reach it, just up the icy hillside from the barn. You can see it here at the edge of the party festivities, its top so spindly I had to nail the angel to the wall so the whole tree didn't keel over into the room. We called it our Hemi-tree, since it had branches on only one side, all the better to fit nicely out of the way against the wall in the room that gets very small when thirty people and one dog are milling about.
Now, the Pathetic Tree has been defrocked of its garlands and lights, and along with the mantle drapings of spruce, cast off to the edge of things having served its part in the season. We're getting extra mileage out of the spruce branches, however. Placed into a woodstove of glowing coals, one at a time, this is wonderful winter entertainment, and horrible. In the fire, the bristly branches become animated, twisting, curling, writhing away from the heat before the needles become incandescent orange brushes. Volatile oils and resins ignite a few inches over the blackening branches, and tongues of flame flare disembodied above, like the spirits of spruce going back to the all from which they came.
Another flame-related holiday pasttime came to memory yesterday while I watched the dying of evergreen boughs. This may be something every family does at Christmas when there are oranges, tangerines and grapefruits about. Take the castoff peels from the ambrosia-making and carry them to a table where a tall candles burns. Hold a thick, juicy piece of rind within a half inch of the flame and bend the peel sharply. This breaks open the storage vacuoles of citrus oil, sending tiny invisible droplets into the flame where they sparkle and crack, and of course with very much of this, the whole house will smell wonderfully of orange.
And I'm sorry, with one thing leading to another in these early morning rambles, I've just remembered other memories and words about the smell of oranges. "Read more" if so inclined, below.
I can remember it so clearly that if it were a physical object, I could reach out in space and touch it. I could feel its texture and mass, know from my fingers of its shape and purpose. But it is not 'real' in this way; it has no mass and is not a thing. This tactile fragment lives at a magical distance just beyond words . It has never existed anywhere but in my mind; or brain--both really, since it first harbored in the soup of cells in a very old part of my central self. There, where fragrances are known.
For fifty years it has remained in mind, holographically, somehow, as the most enduring of memories. There are not even good words to say what this neuro-nothing is, or was. It is the aura of the memory of orangeness at Thanksgiving. Not the fruit, not the orange thing itself, but the room-filling bite it leaves in air when its skin is broken-- a molecular mist mingled with other perfumer's "accords" or undertones? of cranberry, celery, old wool, silver polish and heat from the kitchen on Thanksgiving day.
Ackerman says "smells detonate softly in our memory like poignant land mines, hidden under the weedy mass of many years and experiences. Hit a trip wire of smell and memories explode all at once."
What memories of the "mute sense" of smell can you conjure from Thanksgiving Days in your long-ago? What trip wires explode into memories of oyster dressing, family, cold Novembers and home? (from Nov 20, 2003)
Comments
I wrote a post about the memory of smells before. I remember the spicy aroma of my mom's oyster dressing, roasting turkey, gravy so good you wanted to bottle it, sharp/sweet cranberry sauce.....I haven't had breakfast yet, and now I'm very hungry!
Posted by: kenju | December 28, 2005 8:42 AM
ORANGES...the overwhelming scent of oranges being peeled, the juice spraying onto your face, inhaling the sweet, yet tart heavenly smell, the scent of orange juice clinging to your fingers, licking the juice off your fingers.Oh my, this sense, smell, and picture takes me back to childhood, in my grandmother Alma's kitchen, standing on an apple crate, with my nose within inches of the oranges being peeled with her sharpest paring knife, being cautioned to "watch, now, Sweet, don't get too close". Being close meant taking advantage of the best smells of Thanksgiving or Christmas..culminating in that deep Southern delight, ambrosia with fresh grated coconut and a sprinkling of maraschino cherries...what a trip down memory lane. Thanks, Fred. You're the best.
Posted by: Anne D. | December 28, 2005 11:01 PM
Oranges are not among the odors that I associate with our childhood Thanksgivings. We were only privileged with oranges in our stockings for Christmas, as that fruit was not normally available in those days (unless one lived in Florida or California, of course--or been well-to-do beyond all imagination). The smell of sage in the dressing that went with the roasted hen is what predominates in my memory. Had we, then, the wild turkey that appear in our back yard, now, it would have been a delicacy for us. (I don't recall having turkey until after finishing college.)
Posted by: Cop Car | December 29, 2005 4:18 AM
As children we did that too! I'd all but forgotten that wonderful aroma from a simpler time when juicy sweet navel oranges were a Christmas treat.
There is a new Red Navel or Cara Cara on the market this season...try them...low acid with a wonderful sweet reddish-orange flesh.
Posted by: BJ | January 4, 2006 12:26 AM