Malted chocolate, orange lollipops, caramel, brie cheese, horse barn/manure, maraschino cherry, coconut sunscreen, jasmine—these are smelling and tasting notes I wrote down during a honey tasting this week led by Carla Marina Marchese, a honey sensory expert and founder of the American Honey Tasting Society, in an online class through The Institute for Art and Olfaction.
Marchese led us through a sensory analysis of five honeys, all complex and very different from one another. As part of the sensory analysis, we looked at the color, consistency, and texture of each honey; the smell intensity and facets; and finally, the taste. Taste, texture, and smell are all components of flavor.
Before we opened the honey jars, we did a fun exercise demonstrating how essential olfaction is to flavor. We plugged our nose and tasted an unlabeled substance. It had the texture of granules and the taste was sweet: sugar. Then we unplugged our noses and tasted again: cinnamon sugar. The taste of cinnamon was undetectable without our sense of smell.
Have you noticed that everyone seems to interpret smells differently? You’re not the only one. I love this excerpt that The Institute for Art and Olfaction shared recently, from an upcoming essay by founder Saskia Wilson-Brown:
“The increasingly fractured significance we apply to scent means that when our personal experiences, memories and preferences are expressed in smell, they are often done so through an uneasy combination of assumptions. “Timeless” meanings (“Frankincense smells holy!”) are assumed to be general understanding, and specific individual perspectives (“The smell of chocolate cake reminds me of my childhood summers in the south of Vietnam”) are assumed to be relatable.
Thus a young trans woman in Atlanta can perceive the smell of rose as a meaningful signifier of her feminine identity, while a Somali scholar in Dubai can concurrently ascribe to it the symbolic meaning of traditional hospitality. An elder from a Canadian First Peoples tribe can understand sage in the context of medicine and healing, while an affluent banker in Hong Kong can understand it as a luxury object in the form of a refreshing room spray.
The meaning of any given smell is heterogeneous; as Derrida would have it with language, so it is with scent. Traditional understandings, fragmented as they already are amongst cultures and epoch, are further splintered with every personal memory, micro-niche, trend, marketing pitch, and emotional analysis. In our globalized world everyone can see or experience everything, and everything means something to everybody. What this means for people working with scent is that, in fact, nothing means one thing to everybody (at least not without a hefty dose of contextual information). Aromatic materials have no consistent meaning. And therein lies the primary problem when working with scent.”
—Saskia Wilson-Brown, The Institute for Art and Olfaction
“Aromatic materials have no consistent meaning.” What do you think?