This time last week (well, almost, it was actually Friday morning) I was driving up 75 in Florida. I’m staring to have great nostalgia when I go back to the southeast, since it’s been almost 10 years since I left, and I don’t go back as often now. As I drove, I passed all the familiarities — Cracker Barrels, Chick-Fil-As, and Krystals on the signs. I came out of the airport and there was humidity (admittedly, not much) in the air.
As I drove, I kept smelling that weird smell I used to smell every year when we drove from Tennessee to Florida for vacation. I still don’t know what that smell is, but as a kid I imagined it was rotten buttermilk. Why? I don’t know. I had never even had buttermilk, let alone smelled it in its normal or spoiled states.
But never mind that. I would hunker down in the backseat of my mom’s Buick Skyhawk, underneath the gold blanket in the above pict, scrunch up my nose, and squeal, “Eeeeewwwww! It stinks! It smells like… ROTTEN BUTTERMILK!”. Then I would proceed to try to hold my breath, but I could never hold it long enough.
