My first thoughts were the smell of a used bookstore, the smell of a coffee shop that roasts their own beans, or the smell of a house heated by a wood stove.
The smell of a forest with a creek. Especially if it’s in the Sierra Nevada mountains. A dry, sweet-spicy smell of evergreens, duff, and cold water. I would bottle it if I could. I’ve never been anywhere else that has that smell.
The smell of the air conditioner wall unit at my mother’s old house. Musky. They were kept out in the garage, and my dad has no sense of smell. He would just put them in the windows and turn them on.
When I came home from school and got hit with the cold air, the smell, I knew it was summer. Yeah, sure, there’s probably a fungus in my brain that drives me towards the highest points I can find to release my spores, but, damn, it smelled like freedom.
Weed. The smell is important because weed is what we sell. It’s important because customers love it. It’s important because of the essential role smell plays in the cannabis experience. It’s important because I’ve gone noseblind to it, meaning that it’s persistently inside me and part of me. I can smell the differences and nuances in the different strains instead of just being overwhelmed by the basic weed smells.
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