French Fried Dreams

I used to live across from a burger joint (the burger joint, if you've from Vancouver) and it was heaven or hell depending on which way the wind was blowing, and it's always blowing near the Columbia River. Actually, I like burgers and fries so it didn't bother me, french fried dreams, although it stirred up cravings for anything non-vegetable. Since then, my dreams are less passionate and I think I might be losing weight.

I miss that smell like smells of food that bring you back to another place and time, another dimension if you're really into it. Like bacon and maple syrup, oh my goodness, or steaks on the grill. The smell of a burger joint isn't quite as sexy as that. It's a greasier smell, a layer that gets trapped in your clothes, like smoke. Still, there's comfort in it. Like Grandma's house: smells a little funky but love is funky too.

The burger joint is gone, razed, evaporated into dust. The lot's been empty for months. Seems lonely. Doesn't smell like anything.

I used to work across the street from a restaurant that roasted its own coffee. Roasting coffee doesn't smell as good as brewing coffee but it was the smell of family, neighbors really - of people doing what they love to do. (Good thing they didn't love recycling manure for fertilizer.)

I still work and live in the same places. It's the burger joint and the coffee roaster that moved.

Olfactory memories.