I went outside last night (yes, to have a fag!!!), into the gloaming. The evening was still and balmy. I was relaxing after work. I had a glass of wine in hand. All was right with the world.
And then it hit me.
Heavenly, sublime, luscious, nectar-of-the-goddesses, exquisite. All the words in the world, all the sublime superlatives.
My Indian next-door-neighbour was cooking.... something.
I raced inside to get my camera. I HAD to capture than smell.. and all that greeted my in the viewfinder was my boring-as-batshit back yard. I waved the camera around madly, as the smells changed and eddied around me. I HAD to find a way of capturing this scent!!!
It was a Suskind/Grenouille moment.
I was so frustrated that my view finder only showed me the picket fence and a darkening sky.
I threw the camera aside and stood there, on the balcony, inhaling the heady flavours and tried to think of words for it.
I wished I was one of those people who thought of words in colour.
There is simply no way that I can translate my experience last night to you. Words are merely that. And that is the downfall of food writing/food porn. How can I share with you the amazing, almost orgasmic scents that pooled and changed and eddied and swirled and changed again. I wanted there to be colours in the air a la Ratatouille, I wanted there to be music. I wanted there to be fireworks.
So here, as best I can, is my description of the smell of my backyard last night:
But on my camera, all it looks like is a picket fence, grey clouds and a pittosporum.