Caramel

  • Absurd Origin Story

    I can’t say X-23 and I can’t say snickt and I can’t say Wolverine, so my ability to tell stupid jokes here is limited. Let’s say this is L-10’s origin story wherein she is accidentally plopped into a barrel of room temperature French fries, and emerges with superhuman mutations that grant her immortality, regeneration, and lethal deep-fried potato claws.



    When I told Lilith I was going to make her a French fries scent, she yelled EWWWWWWWW, so here’s a perfume that smells like a carbonated caramel-flavored soda (that shall remain nameless) with a hint of marshmallow.

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  • Agrat-Bat-Mahlaht

    Amber, cream accord, white honey, apple blossom, skin musk, caramel, and teak.

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  • Bien Loin D’Ici

    This is the house, the sacred box,
    Where, always draped in languorous frocks,
    And always at home if someone knocks,

    One elbow into the pillow pressed,
    She lies, and lazily fans her breast,
    While fountains weep their soulfullest:

    This is the chamber of Dorothy.
    Fountain and breeze for her alone
    Sob in that soothing undertone.
    Was ever so spoiled a harlot known?

    With odorous oils and rosemary,
    Benzoin and every unguent grown,
    Her skin is rubbed most delicately.
    The flowers are faint with ecstasy.

    The Scarlet Woman, aglow with sensual indolence: red musk, benzoin, caramel accord, golden honey, and spiced Moroccan unguents.

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  • Schmendrick

    Wonder and love and great sorrow shook Schmendrick the Magician then, and came together inside him, and filled him, filled him until he felt himself brimming and flowing with something that was none of these. He did not believe it, but it came to him anyway, as it had touched him twice before and left him more barren than he had been. This time, there was too much of it for him to hold: it spilled through his skin, sprang from his fingers and toes, welled up equally in his eyes and his hair and the hollows of his shoulders. There was too much to hold, too much ever to use; and still he found himself weeping with the pain of his impossible greed. He thought, or said, or sang, 'I did not know that I was so empty, to be so full'.

    Unexplored potential: sweet, raw tobacco leaves, chamomile, clary sage, Mysore sandalwood, sultana raisins, and caramel.

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  • Theáomai

    I regard the theatre as the greatest of all art forms, the most immediate way in which a human being can share with another the sense of what it is to be a human being. 

    – Oscar Wilde

    Lilith has loved the theater since we first took her to see Matilda when she was five. She loves musicals, she loves plays, she loves Shakespeare and Sondheim. She loves huge productions and local improv, she loves Hamlet and drag revues. She loves the pageantry and the intimacy, and loves performing in shows and attending shows equally.

    This is the scent of the pile of junk food that accompanies us to almost every performance: chocolate chip cookies, pretzels, caramel corn, and a little slurp of soda.

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  • Tiresias, The Androgyne

    Upon the next stage, a spotlight is focused on a mammoth bronze sculpture of two snakes entwined. Their bodies are wrapped around each other in an intimate embrace, and their tongues touch suggestively. The deep, somber boom of a standing bass leads into a twelve-string guitar’s plaintive moan, and as the music swells, a stunning, statuesque woman steps out from behind the statue, her fierce and regal face in profile. The spotlight dims to a deep amber-red, and shines a dark, sanguine light onto her, tinting her long, wild hair the color of blood. She sings:

    Sunday is gloomy, my hours are slumberless.
    Dearest, the shadows I live with are numberless.
    Little white flowers will never awaken you,
    Not where the black coach of sorrow has taken you.
    Angels have no thought of ever returning you.
    Would they be angry if I thought of joining you?
    Gloomy Sunday.

    She turns, and abruptly faces left. Her features are coarser, more masculine, and you notice the rough, dusky shadow of an evening beard on the singer’s face. On this side, the hair is cropped short, and as s/he sighs and begins the next verse, you hear the voice deepen to a weathered, sorrowful baritone.

    Gloomy is Sunday; with shadows I spend it all.
    My heart and I have decided to end it all.
    Soon there’ll be candles and prayers that are sad, I know.
    Death is no dream, for in death I’m caressing you.
    With the last breath of my soul I’ll be blessing you.
    Gloomy Sunday.

    The singer turns to face the audience, and your senses reel. On the left side, the features are sharp, but feminine. You can see the curve of her breast, the soft fullness of her hips, the arch of her fine brow. On the right, it is the body of an Adonis, muscular and commanding. You see that a thick seam runs down the center of the body, stitched roughly.

    Though the vision is disconcerting, the warmth and passion in the singer’s voice swells inside your heart, and you are spellbound. Enraptured, you realize that though the gender is opposed on either side, one soul binds the whole.

    Dark, moody, and bittersweet: black currant, patchouli, tobacco, cinnamon leaf, caramel, muguet, and red sandalwood.

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