For perfume writer Alice du Parcq, temporarily losing the sense reminded her just how valuable it is. ‘They smell amazing mum!’ comes the salivating chant from my six-year-old as I pull the tray of warm, slightly-undercooked cookies from the oven.
I’m on day four of Coronavirus and broken, but I’ve somehow clobbered together a recipe and that very specific tone of singsong-tolerance-voice despite the eggshells and flour spilling.
We did it, the cookies look great. But something isn’t right. Did I miss a step out? No. Everything looks okay. Except… I’m not okay.
I can’t smell a thing. I lean in, inhaling the hot plumes like an Acme cartoon hound outside a butcher’s shop, hoping to draw in a snaking whiff of delicious doughy scent, but