The smell of kerosene. It reminds me of my paternal grandfather's workshop. My sister's and I adored that man, and he us.
Non-emission controlled car exhaust. Another one from child hood. The Old Man builds race cars and engines. My sisters and I spent many Saturday nights at a small track outside of Toronto watching cars go around in circles and eating chips. My sister's claim they hate racing. Though they do admit that, when ever they pass a race on television, they can't stop themselves from looking and thinking "Oh, whose racing? What's going on? Whose winning?" Then, much to their chagrin, they realize what they are doing and curse their formative years! I'd hope that when a Hot Rod passes by them and wafts that sweetness by their noses they'll be taken back to those nights and smile. They were actually some of the happier times for our family, for all the grumbling they did at the time.
Bacon and coffee.
My kids. Children have a smell. Babies especially. They should make Fabreeze smell like that. Sales would quadruple.
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