The smell of the air conditioner wall unit at my mother’s old house. Musky. They were kept out in the garage, and my dad has no sense of smell. He would just put them in the windows and turn them on.

When I came home from school and got hit with the cold air, the smell, I knew it was summer. Yeah, sure, there’s probably a fungus in my brain that drives me towards the highest points I can find to release my spores, but, damn, it smelled like freedom.

A rainy mixed forest.

Petrichor mixed with woody decomposition and pine. Perfection. Add a touch of woodsmoke and baking, and there’s nothing that says home more to me.

Weed. The smell is important because weed is what we sell. It’s important because customers love it. It’s important because of the essential role smell plays in the cannabis experience. It’s important because I’ve gone noseblind to it, meaning that it’s persistently inside me and part of me. I can smell the differences and nuances in the different strains instead of just being overwhelmed by the basic weed smells.

First thing that came to mind was an Irish pub. Centuries old hardwood and malty hops. Very relaxing.

It currently smells like alfalfa. A highly chemically floral smell. It’s the closest thing I have to a home.

The smell of wood and moisture. You guessed it, a forest.

Shoestore. No idea how to describe it. Scent of leather perhaps

A hint on incense and spicy food, the smell of the ocean, and tuk tuk fumes.

My first thoughts were the smell of a used bookstore, the smell of a coffee shop that roasts their own beans, or the smell of a house heated by a wood stove.

The moisture, the feromones… there really is nothing like it.

The smell of a forest with a creek. Especially if it’s in the Sierra Nevada mountains. A dry, sweet-spicy smell of evergreens, duff, and cold water. I would bottle it if I could. I’ve never been anywhere else that has that smell.