“You Smell Like a Slutty Grandma”

When I was a little girl, I would wander into my grandmother’s room where she had a mid-century, imported hand-carved dresser with large wooden pulls on the drawers. On the top sat a gold rimmed glass tray crowded with premium fragrances and other designer imposters.

There were ornate bottles of all kinds. Tall, miniature, all with beautiful curves and sleek ridges. I was especially fascinated by the tiny mesh bag you squeeze at the top, that had frayed colored tassels dangling from the end.

I would spend what seemed like hours studying every bottle, running out of bare skin to spray the next sample. Come to think of it, on the ride home I probably smelled like a chemical cocktail of all of them, undoubtedly nauseating my poor parents with every mile.

Fast-forward to being a gal in my forties, and I find myself longing for a little slice of nostalgia. And grandma I suppose.

I’ve even been forming what seems to be an obsession, with half-empty bottles of vintage perfume.

As life gets shorter and starts to throw different things our way, maybe we yearn for a time when we were back in Nana’s room playing with clip-on earrings that made our ear lobes numb, and those intoxicating familiar scents.

The other evening as I was spritzing on Elizabeth Arden Red Door, one of my grandmas’ favorites, my husband brushed past me and gently whispered,

“You smell like a…” choosing his words carefully.

“a slutty grandma” he said.

Before I even had the chance to laugh, he followed it up with,

“I like it.”

I don’t think my grandpa said those exact words to my grandmother, but it was the sexiest thing anyone has ever said to me.

I recently came across a favorite from the nineties while wandering past a wooden display case with glass shelves in an antique shop. My eyes spotted a familiar, sleek, shiny black orb with a signature script on the front.

“Paloma Picasso.”

I couldn’t believe it.

I reached into the dusty old cabinet, slowly pulling out the tiny travel sized bottle, trying not to knock it, or any of the other thirty bottles over. Then I removed the semicircle cap and slowly brought it up to my nose.

I instantly remembered that classy amber-musk aroma. The very smell of it seemed to simultaneously lift my cheeks into the most warming half smile.

I hadn’t smelled that particular aroma, since my mom’s impossibly cool friend “Doobie” kept it on her dresser next to her Merit cigarettes and a book of matches. (you can probably guess how she got her nickname)

Taking it all in, I felt suddenly as though I was fifteen, sitting behind the wheel of her boxy blue Bronco, learning to drive in an empty commercial parking lot in the suburbs of Minneapolis.

Then later, I would watch her beautifully sip Chardonnay by her kick-ass pool, just below her high-rise apartment in their rich neighborhood.

To complete a full-circle moment, I recently bought all sixteen travel size aerosols of Georgio Primo! Designer Imposter body spray at Walmart, because it was one of the perfumes my mother wore when I was in grade school.

The cashier thought I was crazy, but I felt to have the smell of my mom with me for the rest of my life at $2 a bottle, to spritz around as I wish, willy-nilly forever and ever, amen, was just a no brainer.

Besides, I’ve spent way more for way less, so, it was totally worth it.

There is something about that bright yellow aerosol bottle and the intoxicatingly addictive aroma that reminds me of hard work, a blonde perm, glossy smile with the most beautiful tiny gap between her front teeth, and gleaming blue eyes.

I love you mom.

After dinner, my husband will hear my signature sigh, catch my attention from across the table, and casually say,

“Would you like me to take you to go get some ice cream?”

It has the cadence of say, when someone offers the family dog a treat.

It’s so sweet.

Well, there’s more to it than that. What really happened, was that after repeatedly taking me all winter long because it was my idea, he was just kind of already conditioned by summer. Like that Pavlov guy with the dog.

The pattern goes something like this.

We finish dinner. I let out an “I’m full, but not too full” sigh of contentment. He recognizes this as a cue that I need assistance in pushing myself over the satiation point of “just enough” to “pleasantly miserable” and then says,

“Do you want me to take you to get ice cream?”

My face lights up. Again, very much like a dog, and in the car we go.

Only I get to ride in the front.

My other guilty pleasure? Affogatos.

I would highly recommend having one as a nightcap, provided you don’t have to get up early the next morning. Or, if you spot one on a menu, you should absolutely do your taste buds a favor and order it.

For anyone unfamiliar, an affogato is a simple Italian dessert. A small cup, a scoop of thick vanilla bean ice cream drowning in a shot of hot espresso. That’s it. Two ingredients.

Frothy magic.

Not all affogatos are created equal.

No-no.

The ice cream is best rock hard, so when you pour the espresso over the top, it keeps form and doesn’t turn into just a lukewarm, sad little latte.

The first time I heard of an affogato was in a song by Lake Street Dive, Twenty-Five. She sings about having affogatos every afternoon in the summer, with the person whom she once loved. It was the saddest song I had ever heard and yet, simply romantic.

Well, after that I instantly had to find out what an affogato was. I quickly wondered just how long I had been missing out on this beautifully crafted, yet simple dessert combining my two favorite things: coffee and ice cream.

Fast-forward a few weeks later to LOVE Creamery in Minnesota, a pastel ice cream dreamland with beautiful tile and art that I could only wish to have in my kitchen at home.

I was with my daughter, who had just moved away to college, and my husband. I remember standing there in line, basking in the heat of a huge picture window, taking in every sensory detail around me.

When they handed me my dessert, I stepped aside, raised the mini pink spoon to my lips and…

WHOA.

That creamy, light brown, frothy espresso poured over the gourmet vanilla bean ice cream was heaven on my tongue. I knew right then I was in love. I also knew that this was how I was going to treat, reward, or console myself until the end of time.

Vacation? Affogato.

Depressed? Affogato.

Celebrating? Affogato.

Yes, I have made them at home, but they just never quite turn out the same and are sadly subpar.

They’re small but indulgent, so I’ve convinced myself they’re perfectly reasonable to have at any time of the day. I even find myself rearranging caffeine schedules just to be able to justify another one.

I went so far down this coffee rabbit hole, I even thought about starting a coffee cart out of a vintage Shasta trailer. It would be sleek, tan and emerald, Italian-inspired, and serve nothing but affogatos.

What is to be the name of this new coffee truck?

El Gato Affogato.

I would pull it behind my hypothetical retro Volkswagen Bus I would be living in, so I could travel from market to market easily. As I sat there off in la-la land, I suddenly remembered how not every hobby I start has to become a business, so El Gato Affogato quickly came to a screeching halt.

As long as we are on a sensory adventure, let’s move from edible, to audible.

Mad Ghoul Radio is a brilliant podcast that was created by my friend Robb Pastor, a walking archive of obscure music brilliance.

This podcast is what I like to call ear candy, and each episode is an entire experience. Think vintage horror movie soundtracks, deep-cut moody pieces, eerie vibes, and strangely beautiful moments. You almost feel transported to another dimension in time and space.

Listening quickly became my Sunday evening ritual after I first discovered it.

One night in the Fall, I decided to listen to the latest episode of MGR while sitting in the hot tub, in the dark cloak of the evening, to have a true immersive experience.

Red lights were glowing, steam rolling off the water, I had a fresh cup of tea in hand. There were thousands of stars shining above with a crisp harvest moon that resembled a scene straight out of a scary movie.

I think it was about track three that something shifted in the energy around me. The air got still, the trees quieted, and an eerie instrumental piece crept in. My ears then perked towards a sound in the brush just beyond the dark of the wood line. Right then I remembered I had started to whistle inside while putting on my suit but stopped myself abruptly remembering what that could potentially summon.

Letting my imagination get the best of me, I quickly made myself a human catapult and went inside to finish the episode from the living room. You know, just in case.

At some stage or age in life, my body decided that feeling joy needs to be efficient or attached to something measurable, otherwise it’s frivolous. Silly.

Does that happen when we become adults? I mean, wasn’t that the best part of being a kid, just enjoying something for the sheer sake of enjoying it?

Why did it have to get all “why the hell are you spinnin’ in the yard Billy?”

Because it’s just fun damn it!

While I work on myself, I have discovered that when I start to fixate on things, it’s because I need to slow down, calm down, and find some peace and quiet.

Right now, being unapologetic about the things that bring me back to life, includes vintage scents, a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream drowning in espresso, and an eerie new podcast.

Affogato anyone?

If you liked this essay, share the love and check out Lake Street Dive | Mad Ghoul Radio - Haunt and Groove Society or LOVE Creamery in Duluth, Minnesota.