The Aromatherapy of Comet

MARCH 15, 2020

 Scouring out the sink, I laugh to myself at how comforting I find the smell of Comet. Smells of my childhood. My mother’s sink was always spotless and being told to “comet out the sink” was an expression that needed no explanation.  I shake more powder out, wishing it was still green. 

While the powder is now white, thankfully the Comet-smell remains intact.  The smell of Comet bringing me memories of helping my mom.  She taught me how to clean.  How to dust the “right” way.

“Flori, wipe underneath the table’s edge.  And wipe down the legs, they are covered in dust”.  I attack our living room coffee table, wiping every single weird gold-leaf leg with a can of lemon spray pledge and a dust rag.  Then I finish up with Windex and paper towels for the glass. 

I’m not sure what you’d call that coffee table style. The table had a weird spray of fake gold-leaf florals, soldered to the base like a sad bride’s bouquet with petals as sharp as razors.  Impossible to clean without getting bits of paper towel stuck on every petal, and impossible to remove these bits without suffering a few good scratches.

A design aesthetic sorely lacking in beauty, this barely secured floral arrangement was always about to break from its perch. If my sister and I ran around the apartment, the floral bouquet would start to bang. It was early 70’s ugly. 

I’m speculating that the aesthetic concept was to have something to look at through the glass top, besides the green shag carpeting.  In my household that was unnecessary.  The table was filled with “tchotchkes” (Yiddish for nick-knacks).  There was a heavy green cut glass square ashtray.  A small metal coaster stand, I have to this day.  Candy dishes for filling before company arrived.  An antique French porcelain pink and gold cigarette holder, part of a set of beautiful smoking accessories.  Now I have all these precious tchotchkes, a lovely connection to my parents, my childhood and the 70’s. 

About once a month my parents would host a card game called PAN.  That was the time I really liked helping my mom to get ready.  In addition to the dusting and vacuuming, I would help her cut up the fruit. It was a work of art.  And a labor of love. 

She taught me how to make a fancy watermelon basket, carefully cutting the edge in a measured zig-zag before opening the melon.  And she showed me how to make fruit balls out of cantaloupe, honeydew and watermelon to fill that basket.

The fruit baller had a different size scoop on each end.  We used the large one for most of the fruit and the small one to get the last bits.  We’d cut up a fresh pineapple as well, saving the top to decorate the watermelon basket.  It was the Carmen Miranda of fruit bowls. My mom would carefully remove all the seeds from the watermelon, that was her love for my dad shining through.

I also had the job of putting a fancy party toothpick into the different pieces of fruit in the basket. Alternating colors of fancy toothpicks and fruit and artfully arranging them all.  I still have my mom’s fancy plastic party toothpicks, each one with a different colored plastic rose on the end.  I loved to help create these beautiful arrangements.  I also liked the dedicated time with my mom, feeling kind of grown up.

My dad would get the tabletop out of the storage area from the building’s laundry room.  This was a large octagonal topper that converted our folding bridge table into a PAN table.  Similar to a poker table, or maybe the exact same, I’m not sure. I was just a kid. The multiple decks of cards would be mucked (mixed) and placed on the special spinning deck holder.  Chips were sorted and distributed, and not a speck of dust remained on the felt table top.   Their friends would arrive around 8:00PM, and my sister and I would say hello, and then go stay in our bedroom.  It was grown-up time, and we knew not to bother our parents or their friends. 

As much as I liked helping, the gem of the evening was listening to the banter.  Borscht belt humor prevailed, and the dirty jokes and innuendo were comedy supreme.  Jewish humor and kibitzing.  Half the punchlines in Yiddish.  Some of it went way over my head, but some of it I understood.  My parents and their friends were hysterical and there was no better feeling than listening to a house full of laughter as I drifted off to sleep.

Back in my kitchen, nervous as hell about this coronavirus pandemic, I’m done loading the dishwasher and now it’s time to “Comet out the sink”.  And that familiar smell somehow calms me.  I laugh to myself and think this is weirdly Jewish neurotic of me, to feel calm after smelling Comet cleanser.  I miss my mom so much these days.  I think it’s natural during times of stress or when we are ill, to “want our mommies”.  I am back to having conversations in my mind with mine.  “Ma, it’s funny about the comet smell, don’t you think?”

I know many of my friends believe in aromatherapy.  Especially the calming effect of lavender and other essential oils.  But what about the calming effect of Comet?  I wonder about research on the smells of childhood.  Stream-of-consciousness-girl while she cleans the kitchen. The smell of Comet…breathe in, breathe out.  Maybe not so close to the powder. 

I’m thinking about the smells that comfort me.  What about the smell of brisket when the foil first comes off and all the love pours into the air? What about Potato latkes frying and all that they imply (Chanukah, presents, candles, gelt)? Don’t forget Peppered steak; the smell of onions and peppers slighting burning and the steak definitely burning! That smell was a sure sign Grandma Molly and Poppy Al were visiting from back east and making MY favorite Peppered Steak.

Our upstairs neighbor’s homemade gefilte fish; a smell that my mother loved, (me, not so much).  Reminders still the same; neighbors were family, and the smell of love and caring easily overrode all else.  And the Big Kahuna of smells----the smell of Chinese Food every Sunday night!  Just typing this sentence brings my Uncle Irv’s face clearly to mind.  A mischievous gangster badass type, he was one of the most generous people I’ve ever known.  Whatever our family needed was provided a week later.  He loved my family unconditionally, deeply, fiercely. 

Treating my family to Chinese Food every Sunday night, all 8 of us squished into that coveted back table booth, sharing dish after dish from the lazy-Susan.  Spareribs were my favorite along with sweet and sour anything.  The restaurant was jam-packed with families and friends from the neighborhood.  So much laughter, noise and the sounds and smells of happy times.

It’s late and my sink is clean.  I do feel calmer and realize I’ve made it through another day.  I hope for everyone that the comforting smells of childhood are enough to see us through the terrifying smells of this pandemic.  And as I wipe the counter, I note with a grip in my stomach that I’m on my last can of Comet.  In my mind, I lock eyes with my mom and we both smile and shrug.  Tomorrow is another day.