What I Don't Smell

I sit by the real heat from my fake fire in a small town in Minnesota. I smell cinnamon, cloves, and orange simmering in a small cast iron pot on my stove, since my fake Christmas tree gives off no scent.  And I reflect on what I no longer smell.

I no longer smell the pungent odor of garlic and fish filling our apartment building at night. Wow!  Wish I could be invited to whichever home is making that!

I no longer smell the rotting odor from the sluggish Kabul river when the Spring Rains have long gone.

I no longer smell the fresh baked naan which always made my mouth water.

I no longer smell the Afghan french fries being cooked at the cart just down the road from my house.  Fresh-cooked Afghan french fries are the best in the world. I loved the joy on the Afghan-French-Fry-Cart-Man's face when I hired him to bring his cart into the school or community center yard to cook up fries for large parties. And I loved the joy on everyone's face as they munched on delicious Afghan french fries which wouldn't make them sick.

I no longer smell garlicky kebabs being grilled, whether in Turkey or Afghanistan.

I no longer smell fried potato BolanI being cooked. (I never really liked the leek BolanI). 

I no longer smell the leaking gas from the hose running into my stove.

I no longer smell the sewer smells running into our apartment from the open drains in our apartment in Turkey.

I no longer smell the burning trash as I walked the streets of Kabul.

I no longer smell the smell of death and dying which seemed to envelope us every day.

I no longer smell the freshness of the air when we picknicked in the King's Garden or walked in the high mountain villages of the Himilayan Mountains when we visited remote villages.

I no longer smell the pollution of the Stationary Bazaar.

I no longer smell sickening car exhaust filling the car as I rode in the back seat of my driver's car, and as I could feel the contents of my stomach threatening to come up from car sickness as my driver repeatedly stepped on the gas and then break.

I no longer smell animal flesh hanging in the meat shops of the Karte Se Bazaar, covered in flies. Make sure to get there at 6 in the morning if you want it fresh!

I no longer smell the comforting smell of yeasted donuts rising in my kitchen as I heat the oil to fry them for my family.  It smelled better overseas somehow.

I no longer smell the chlorine from the small pool we maintained for our children and lots of other children so they could enjoy childhood in a militarized war zone of a city. They call Turkey "home" and Afghanistan a place of a delight and childhood wonder.

I no longer smell the delightful mix of mint, red pepper, garlic, and frying meat in my favorite Kayseri Manta restaurant.

I no longer smell the unique mix of spices of KabelI Palau.

I no longer smell the cheap perfume of my Afghan women friends who regularly came to see me because it was too dangerous for me to be seen in their neighborhoods.

I no longer smell the soft sent of Khala-jan Guldara (not her real name), a woman who became like my Afghan mother and our kids' Afghan Grandmother.


Lord, help me to never forget the smell poverty, death, and dying all around me.  Small town USA is so clean.  THERE ARE NO SMELLS. 

Help me to long for the smells of the marriage feast of the Lamb. 



Go To:

What I Don't Hear
What I Don't See