Herbes de Provence

Smell can be a powerful trigger for memories. Write about a particular scent and what it makes you think of or feel.

I had never cooked so much as when I studied in the south of France. It was my junior year of université, and though I considered myself an accomplished baker, I had no oven here. Just a pair of hot plates and a shoddy internet connection I used to look up recipes.

Aix-en-Provence was a curious mix of international students and wealthy old women. I lived above one of them, in the former maids’ quarters of a Revolution-era condominium—oddly one of the younger buildings in the heart of the city. My host mother’s apartment was like a palace, with its vaulted ceilings and museum-worthy splendor; mine was more of a funhouse. The isosceles kitchen tapered to a sharp point. I would have thought I was in Wonderland if weren’t for the accordion hum wafting through the windows, a welcome daily reminder that I was, indeed, living in France.

Any nearby restaurants catered to old money and new tourists. If I wanted to eat, I needed a cheaper option.

The Sunday markets were flush with organic Mediterranean vegetables of incredible color and size. I grew comfortable conversing with the paella man and the chef who made fresh raviolis. I drooled over the cheeses that molded together in their display cases, a sign of their true delicacy. I would load up on fresh ingredients and carry them back down the cobblestone streets, often with no idea what to make of them.

So I dabbled. I learned to make rice, and tried my hand at a stir-fry or two. I Googled recipes for my favorite French sauces. If they separated, no one had to know; if they held, I reveled in my triumph. But spices were the hardest thing to come by. I learned to love the local blend: herbes de Provence.

Parsley, rosemary, thyme. A bit of basil and oregano, a taste of tarragon and marjoram. The kicker was the lavender, whose purple fields were not far off from the city. I learned to love this little jar I had acquired, to add it to everything, by the dash or the palmful, to embrace its ability to uplift or cover over even my worst attempts at cuisine.

To this day it’s still my favorite spice. I love the familiarity it offers me, and yet it still manages to taste different in every dish. I still cook much the same way, building on skills I taught myself a decade ago, looking up a YouTube video when I want to try something new (sometimes after I’ve already overconfidently attempted it). But should I make a mistake at the stove, the herbes are always there. To correct, to comfort—to complete.