“What are you doing, stud? Are you mad or something? There’s a casket waiting for you at the funeral home.”
I hurried into the bathroom and emptied the contents into a toilet bowl, flushing three times to remove all evidence. When my wife returned, there went her nose again, sniffing madly.
“What’s that smell in here? You got the candles going again. Smells like cherry in here.”
“Yes, you’re absolutely right. New blend of the month. Cherry tart pie. You like it?”
“Smells better than a lot of the other stuff that’s burned around here. Why do you have the fan going? We have central air.”
“Thought I could spread the cherry odor throughout all the rooms.”
Worked like a charm. And that, my friends, was the last encore I had with my pipe. No desire to return, either.
As for Santa’s pipe candle, not a bad substitute. But for mesmerizing scents, I’ll take the butter rum cake any day.
Writer and photographer Tom Vartabedian is retired from The Haverhill Gazette. He contributes this regular column.