Invidiana

The is all buttery warm spiced pumpkin bread, the kind that fills the house with that unmistakable autumn aroma just like Pumpkin Zucchini Bread and last year's Pumpkin Nut Bread atmo, dredged in chocolate sprinkles that are exactly like the real thing, with a slightly powdery cacao not that is not overwhelmingly sweet. There seems to be an undertone of coffee even though it isn't listed in the notes. The bitter aspect of the cacao is probably translating to having a slice of chocolate pumpkin bread next to a steaming cup of coffee.

Autumn is falling over a seaside town where vacationers have long since gone home and the locals have packed their umbrellas up for the season. Under gloomy skies, blue-gray waves crash against the abandoned shore over and over, as if trying to reach for something that is no longer there. It swallows the ghosts of footprints and sandcastles. Winds moan in the distance, scattering dead leaves at the edge of the sand. Strange magic happens when the salty breath of the ocean mingles with dry leaves further inland, creating a beach scene that attracts few to the shore, but those who experience it are utterly bewitched.

There is something about baking pumpkin bread that just fills the entire house with autumn. There's the yellow-orange warmth of pumpkin and squash, just enough cinnamon, and the slightly caramelized crust you can't help picking pieces off of. Now you don't have to bake an actual loaf of pumpkin bread to inhale that heavenly small all day long.

The first thing you see is a huge cherry clown nose, made even redder with redcurrant, before it settles down into layers and layers of white vanilla cream-to-powder makeup, which is not unlike Clown White. The tattoo ink beneath is subtle, but definitely there. If you loved Clown White, you need Clown Flash. Even the coulrophobes will dig this one. 

Hairy with soft, fuzzy patchouli, this tarantula is covered in red-orange stripes of cranberry and caramelized pumpkin with that golden brown candied crust that makes it all the more tempting, especially with a splash of sweet bourbon venom. Underneath all that deliciousness is an undercurrent of what can only be tattoo ink. Don't worry, this one doesn't bite. 

An overflow of cherry cola fizz spills in the backseat of this hearse, seeping into the cracks of tan leather seats form the '80s. Nothing like cherry cola to mask the smell of death. With a poof of exhaust fumes, the hearse is off to claim its next customer.

Dressed up in a Halloween costume of orange pumpkin-flavored dust and decked out with a subtle sprinkling of spice, buttered popcorn gets into the spirit of the season. You can just feel your fingers turning orange from digging fistfuls of it out of a vintage tin. 

When I was a kid, we used to go apple picking in upstate New York. There were packed dirt roads throughout the orchard so cars could just barely make it through to park on the grass. Tires were always crunching on fallen apples, most of which had already been gnawed on by insects or squirrels, some more fermented with others. There were always apples lying on either side of the road among drifts of dead leaves. This is the scent of deep nostalgia: breaths of crisp autumn air and sweet-tart apples riddled with blotches of brownish fermentation, always with a few dry leaves carried on the wind.

Despite the overwhelming decay in this story, Air and Sunshine Galore is a breath of clean air in an open room flooded with amber sunlight. It is a a sunny and uplifting type of yellow which rushes in with a welcome breeze of citrus and aldehydes that carries the scent of heliotrope petals. Behind the yellow is just a hint of gleaming metal that has been touched by the sun and is not ominous in the least. It is what the smell of that house is supposed to be like before must and mildew start to creep in.

This is indeed a yellow smell, browning at the edges like peeling wallpaper. You can almost feel the thick golden beeswax, honey and amber oozing from those haunted walls where that wallpaper, with its yellow curlicues of hay and saffron, is coming unglued to reveal scorched wood with an undercurrent of sweet fig. The sweetness is not sickly sweet, just evocative of decay that would be. It's something you actually do want to get in your hair.

So, which band does he want me to name three songs from? Bauhaus? Sisters of Mercy? Rosetta Stone? Cocteau Twins? The Cure? I could go on. For an undead record store dickhead, he smells amazing. You know the smell of pleather when you smell it, plastic but leathery plastic. There is just something tactile about it. In his bony hands are several fresh vinyls, and behind him, rows and rows of vinyls. Somewhere in the back of that record store sweet, dark nag champa incense is burning. Ghostly tendrils of smoke surround him as he flashes a grin while trying to decide whether you're worthy of entering his domain.

The scene begins shrouded by a miasma of intensely indolic jasmine, but once the indole fades, an empty room emerges. Whatever gauzy light is left from the late afternoon filters through moth-eaten curtains. Marigolds are scattered on the floor among the shards of a porcelain vase. Ectoplasmic gobs of vanilla ooze from the plaster between curls of peeling, mildewed wallpaper. Everything is a shade of yellow like a pervasive stain, sickly but defiant of what we perceive as beauty. 

This is the classic autumn vision of a freshly baked apple pie cooling on a windowsill, with smells of sweet apples and spices wafting outside where leaves are steadily raining down. Children stop and take deep breaths of the forbidden pie. It tempts the squirrels and chipmunks and raccoons that rustle through piles of dead leaves, hoping for a taste. The ultimate fall comfort has been bottled. 

Deep chocolate evokes the deep shadows of autumn. Decadent molten chocolate is the thick and unapologetic heart of this scent, with a dusting of dark cacao that creates an earthy backdrop where dead leaves flutter down. If there was ever a way to make chocolate autumnal in another way besides adding spices or more gourmand elements, this would be it. 

Imagine raking leaves on a bright October day, with orange, red, yellow and brown leaves dancing in sudden gusts that kick them up at your feet. Some swirl above your head as they drift down from the trembling branches of oaks and maples. Dry leaves brush against clean skin. When the sun begins to sink and porch lights switch on, you come inside from the chill but still carry the unmistakeable scent of autumn with you. It mingles with your skin,  and you drift to sleep as if in a bed of autumn leaves.

Halloween hues swirl together with the purple of ube and the orange of pumpkin.The deep vanillic flavor of ube merges with sweet buttery pumpkin in a luscious, creamy cheesecake filling made even more decadent by the crunch of graham crackers and brown sugar.  It's the type of dessert where one more bite turns into one more, and one more, and one more...

Everything about this is orange and gold. Pumpkin, roasted to buttery perfection, is glided by a boozy glaze of vanillaed brandy and spiced with clove and nutmeg. The spices are present and warming but not overwhelming. The scent warms you from the inside, much like the pumpkin-infused bourbon (not brandy but close enough) I sipped at the now-defunct Lovecraft Bar on an October evening years ago. 

The Woman Behind It All is reminiscent of gauzy off-white curtains, of shadows flitting back and forth on plaster walls, making you wonder if the vaguely human silhouettes are a trick of light or something more. Something like the fuzzy glow of lamplight buzzes in the background. Phantoms of a woman's perfume hang in the air. Haunting and realistic, this is a dimly room where ghosts are not afraid to show themselves in some form. 

This is heady, indolic jasmine in full bloom, with an intensity that reflects the glare of eyes watching you from every direction. Jasmine unfurls its petals right away. Over time, the indole softens and gives way to gauzy tobacco and vanillic lace, though it still remains an intoxicating white floral dominated by jasmine. A Recurrent Spot, like the story it is inspired by, is beautifully intense but definitely not for the faint-hearted. 

An overflow of cold, foamy root beer bubbles to the surface first, carbonation and all, but this Halloween treat grows creamier from gobs of pumpkin ice cream that float to the surface. The ice cream is heavy on the vanilla and has just enough smooth, mild pumpkin, not with an onslaught of cinnamon, but subtly spiced, just enough to give it that pumpkin spice flavor. Try not to drink yourself.

Around this time of year, every candy shop in existence starts to put out loaded caramel apples in those cellophane wrappers tied with orange and black bows. They tempt and tease from the windows. This is the fantasy of biting into one of those apples: buttery toffee and gooey caramel with that burnt-sugar lusciousness, rolled in satisfyingly crunchy popcorn and roasted almonds with a dusting of cinnamon, with a bite of juicy Red Delicious beneath all that Halloween candy on a stick. You can almost feel it stick to your teeth.

This makes me so nostalgic for my old Halloween costumes from the '90s. I can almost feel the velvet and lame (which was probably polyester) of  the witch and unicorn costumes from Party City that I wore in the third and fourth grade, and this is meant in the best way possible. The black and red petals magically evoke the fabrics they match, with the dried red rose petals giving this more of a vintage feeling than fresh roses. While I don't specifically pick up any pepper, it might be adding to that pleasantly dry feeling of costume fabrics.  Wearing this is almost as if I put on those costumes again and time-warped myself back to 1993 to experience Halloween though the untainted eyes of a child.

This is a blushing Pink-O-Ween confection, strawberry ice cream with that malt note, the same stuff in the middle of Whoppers or Malteasers, that keeps it from getting overwhelmingly sweet. The strawberry flavor is no ordinary strawberry. There is something extra to it, which must be the papaya and black cherry. The whole thing is floating on ghostly clouds of marshmallow cream that any trick-or-treater would trade in their candy bucket for.

This dragon is redolent of summer grass and mossy rocks warmed by sunlight under an open sky. The coolness of weathered wood and stone from ancient monasteries is carried gently on a breeze swirling with sheer musks and arcane magic. It is a breath of pristine cliffs where only monks and dragons dwell, a realm of dreams in hazy green with glimpses of yellow as daylight reflects off the lounging dragon’s scales.  

There is nothing to cool off an infernal summer like a chilly shroud of coconut and vanilla snow, with a fuzzy blanket of white rice and something vaguely lactonic in the background. This is not a blizzard that opens with a bracing blast of snow and ice. Instead, this is the kind of soft snowfall that muffles everything outside and frosts windowpanes with gentle breaths of cool air, lulling children to sleep in sweet-smelling clouds with visions of winter fairies and snowmen that come alive.