(This entry should be read while listening to Meryn Cadell's "The Sweater.")
Before enduring another months-long parting in our long-distance relationship, I would steal one of my not-yet-husband's sweaters, of which I pulled a Napoleon and asked him to wear repeatedly.
It would have a sunny, bready smell, like spiced stollen with lemon zest. It is fitting that my sweet would smell like sweet. I would sleep in it once, then keep it tightly stowed away in my cabinet. I didn't want to lose a single bit of its marvellous warm scent. Photos letters phone and instant messaging capped by a weekly burying of my face into the patisserie-at-8-AM-redolent soft fabric - until I felt like crying, at which point I would put it away because I didn't want my tears to taint the traces of him him him.
Now I have my love to smell all the time! Fantastical scents, cedar and lavender. This week resting my head on his shoulder I smelled cream with a delicious salty edge, like the crackle of digging into a vanilla-laden creme brulee. It smelled familiar, and I rolled it around on my tongue until it flashed: it was the salted caramel heart of Prada's Candy!
I had only smelled Candy on paper before, and was intrigued. I dug out the adorable sample box (it really does have the most striking campaign in ages - Lea Seydoux is as sweet as a pastry swan) and gave it a go, hoping I would be struck with lyrebird boy beauty.
Husband: ∞
Candy: -3
Candy is hypersweet and sticky, and one of the few perfumes that made me think twice upon application: "Will people smell this on me in passing? Did I put too much on? Why do I smell like I belong in S Club 7? Will people think less of me since I am wearing the equivalent of a Betsey Johnson prom dress?" (Evidently they did, since we were served raw chicken and tepid polenta at brunch. I blame it on Candy.) The incredible salty-crunch aspect that I loved on paper is buried under a disco igloo's worth of neon pink sugarcubes (that made no sense, but fuck it, it's staying) (you can also put in disco confiserie), sugarbabies, lipgloss from Claire's, pages ripped from Teen Vogue.
But I win, because I have my very own darl-doll to supply me with the real Quimper deal.
Love you!
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