Standing on a street corner, I reach out and pinch some delicate spring growth on the fir tree standing beside me. It is a dry, cool day. Last night it rained heavily, cleaning the air. Suddenly, I stuff my nose deeply into a freshly opened bag of light/medium duty rubber bands. I had been eating dried cherries several hours earlier and the aroma still haunts my fingertips like a memory of a memory. This initial impression is so fleeting I hesitate to move the needle off FLAT.
This tasting is momentarily arrested when a large plate of prime rib is placed before me. Its smoky, meaty aroma saturates the air in front of me, completely muddling the Foris.
The meaty odor, having dispersed enough to continue, reveals these final notes on Foris. I find myself standing in line at Disneyland (CA, not FL). I am and have been for quite some time standing in an immeasurably long line for an unknown ride. The air is still and warm. It even stings my nostrils slightly, the way old cigarette smoke can sometimes do. The little girl in front of me is holding a fruity lollipop as exhaust from the mini-car ride wafts in on a lonely breeze from far away. On the tail end of that breeze, I sense that the wind may first have danced through the leaves of an orange orchard probably 50 miles to the south.
And I taste canned pears.