A distant intimacy

I wish this were a scratch-and-sniff picture, so you'd know what I'm talking about.

Because these pots' cool shines belie the heat beneath them, and within, and emerging. And you can't smell the arrabiata sauce simmering on the right, its acid and spice softened a bit by a roast pork reduction, or sense the steam from the pot on the left, ready for cappellini.

As often happens, Robert was on the porch asking me what the hell smelled so good. And it struck me that smell, like taste, relies on direct contact with the molecules of the object in question (a delicious thought when it's an enticing sauce, less so when it's something you've stepped in).

But unlike taste, it allows a distance, savoring from afar. Tonight it's the nose's promise to the tongue, getting ready to be kept, even disguised under stainless steel over blue flame.