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This was one of my Unexpected Weenie Wins™! It does indeed smell just like dried mango imo, a big boop of tropical fruitiness out of gate. The clove is the cozy, wafting spicy kind, not too aggressive, just enough to warm the scent up and make it interesting. I agree with the above comment about the clove turning it from an ostensibly summer scent into an unexpected cold weather scent as well. I wasnt expecting to love it, but I've liked several of the other Blow Molds so I figured what the heck. Big "Christmas in the Tropics" vibes.
- Today
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The dark, roasted bite of freshly crushed coffee beans folded into the sinuous heat of Snake Oil’s infamous bestseller. Bitter espresso grounds smoldering under a curled-up hiss of sugared patchouli, spiced amber, and velvety vanilla.
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Pumpkin custard swirled with thick eggnog, dark roast coffee, grated nutmeg, soft cinnamon, and a drizzle of brown-sugar syrup.
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Dust-soft vellum, cracked leather, and yellowed pages exhaling their ghost of vanillin, a triple shot of espresso, and a deft swirl of warm, velvety microfoam.
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My Lolo used to make these every Sunday. A swirl of nostalgia: cold, creamy coffee ice cream melting into a fizz of root beer, turning effervescent bubbles into caramelized satin.
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Freshly roasted coffee beans releasing their dark, velvety warmth amongst ribbons of molten caramel and a haze of deliciously radiant golden amber.
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The perfume of French Quarter mornings: rich chicory coffee, earthy and bittersweet, drifting through the powdered-sugar clouds of warm beignets dusted to luminosity.
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Soothing, warm and quietly radiant: espresso kissed with honey, swirled into warm steamed milk, and crowned with a dusting of cinnamon.
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Voluptuous Bulgarian rose unfurls like crimson silk, met by the dark, resinous warmth of freshly cracked coffee beans.
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After thirty years of reluctantly drinking coffee, Ted has become a bean aficionado thanks to a local shop called the Head Nut. Recently, we bought French vanilla and bourbon chocolate beans from them and ever since that day, Ted has been hooked. Of course, Ted’s morning coffee is the breakfast beverage equivalent to a cozy hug: a slow-simmered swirl of brown sugar melting into steamed milk, wrapped around the soothing, sweet warmth of vanilla-infused espresso.
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The inky bite of black coffee rising in gusts of steam, softened by the warm-gold glow of buttered crust and sugared apples.
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Espresso poured over lush condensed milk and a bright thread of lemon, sweetened with Licor 43 and finished with a dusting of warm cinnamon.
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The scent of a too-big mug of coffee at your favorite all-night diner after the clubs let out: a slow ribbon of clove smoke, the warm fry-oil haze that clings to everything, and a fleeting gust of maple syrup drifting through the booths.
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Black leather flecked with remnants of a gloopy food court cinnamon bun.
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A calming, affirming fragrance to help motivate Santa through the daunting tasks which await him year after year: sugar plum lavender marshmallows.
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A festival of frights. A jolly, hulking golem dressed in a gloriously tacky sweater: honey-dipped amber and pocket-warmed gelt, a basket of pumpkin rugelach, a smushed sufganiyah, and a touch of latke grease.
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The scent of ghost stories told beside a crackling fireplace, with garlands of evergreen hanging beside October’s carved pumpkins. Hearthlight and jack o’lanterns cast shadows on cobwebbed corners. Candied orange peel, mulled cider, smoked myrrh twirling through a cranberry garland, balsam resin and amber-drizzled pumpkin, smoldering hearthwood, and the soft honeyed glow of dripping beeswax.
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“O wilt thou go with me, thou loveliest boy? My daughter shall tend thee with care and with joy; She shall bear thee so lightly thro’ wet and thro’ wild, And press thee, and kiss thee, and sing to my child.” An ethereal lure crafted with milk and honey.
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O, who rides by night thro’ the woodland so wild? It is the fond father embracing his child; And close the boy nestles within his loved arm, To hold himself fast, and to keep himself warm. The pale sugared blossoms of innocence wrapped tightly in sleet-soaked arms. Vanilla bourbon, cream peony, and white carnation enveloped in a warm, protective fortress of tonka, white cedar, orris root, red amber, and leather.
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“O father, my father, and saw you not plain, The Erl-King’s pale daughter glide past thro’ the rain?” — “O yes, my loved treasure, I knew it full soon; It was the grey willow that danced to the moon.” Moonlit mist clinging to skin the color of ghost lilies, pearlescent and cold. A spectral musk possessing the sheen of river water at night.
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(The Erl-King speaks.) “O come and go with me, thou loveliest child; By many a gay sport shall thy time be beguiled; My mother keeps for thee full many a fair toy, And many a fine flower shall she pluck for my boy.” The promise of dew-bright meadows and sugar-spun toys, gleaming and hollow: apple peel, wild violet, meadowsweet, and candied blood-red fruits.
