On a recent night, the aroma of something burning wafted in, mysteriously, from the direction of the raw bar.
The floor is covered with increasingly soggy cardboard; perfectly round pumpkins, slightly smaller than volleyballs, are being scooped, steamed and smashed in every corner; and there is an unmistakable aroma of something just short of fully spiced pumpkin pie.
Besides Patchouli being the stink against which all gnarly stinks are gauged, I was able to recognize no distinctive facets to the aroma beyond something akin to boiled malt vinegar.
A mixture of too many different smells may lead to a confusing aroma or something rather bland.
So here's a suggestion: Hang around your neck a small Ziploc bag containing a towelette infused with an aroma of, well, of something deeply disgusting.
At the Poet ethanol plant in Chancellor, S.D. two things stand out: the sheer scale of the six corn-storage bins each 90 feet tall, together capable of holding five weeks' worth of corn for the plant and the nearly overpowering smell, a yeasty aroma, with hints of something slightly rotten.
When blending ingredients with fruit, he warned, "You can use lighter, playful flavors, but you have to justify those aromas, that sweetness, with something deeper, like the toasty nori".
The aroma had been transformed into something leafier, more subtle.
Our farm house in Connecticut is packed with family and friends, everyone pitches in or brings something and the aroma of the two turkeys fills us with gratitude even before we bear the platters in.
I'll follow the implicit aroma of you and whisper something.
