I left the house this morning in a rush, after having in spectacular and somewhat Rube Goldbergian manner knocked over and smashed into pieces and puddles a bottle of Pastis that H had given me for Xmas. Mourning this profound loss, I mopped up what I could then sped to my dentist appointment. I then spent the day at work having completely forgotten about this incident until I got home just now, and my memory of it was triggered by the unmistakable olfactory cue. More mopping to do tomorrow morning, I guess... unless I should leave my floor sticky with licorice liqueur? Would that count as aromatherapy?