The Carry-On Home

There is a small empty mason jar labeled “sage, rosemary, and garlic salt” in my spice cabinet. The spices are from a farm in Mexico.

Logically, I know that once a jar is finished, it’s time to get rid of it. But with this one, I don’t. I wouldn’t feel good tossing it away because this small jar still smells like the lush farm from four years ago when I unscrew the cap. That’s real magic. 

I remember the calm, hazy land surrounding the farm to table restaurant where I bought the jar with the handwritten label. This was the last stop and purchase before the journey home. I also remember my cooler cousin confirming that we would get to the airport on time despite wanting to live at this farm forever. Actually, there’s a lot of small details I can recall just by smelling this empty 4oz jar. 

I remember my cousin’s promise that we would make it to the airport in time was followed up by a trusting hand squeeze. I remember the bathroom at this farm that, I kid you not, looked like the chest pocket of Eden, overgrown with tropical plants spilling from the walls and surrounding large golden mirrors. I’d never met a bathroom like that and still haven’t. So ridiculously beautiful.

“Where were the walls in there?” I might have asked my cousin because the walls were so covered with plant leaves that I couldn’t tell if they were buried in green vines, or if there were no walls at all to begin with.

“Just one of those stupid views.” She might have said back with a wink. This is a common back and forth phrase we say to each other when presented with a view so beautiful, we can’t quite believe we are there. This view just happened to be a farm’s bathroom in Mexico.

The memory flashes that are attached to this empty jar of farm spices are: 

A pizza with an open-eyed egg on the top for me to dip the crust in. 

A bouquet of pickled and green spicy vegetables overflowing like a real vase of a Bloody Mary.

A fear of missing a flight because this is just too damn good.

Rock climbing and dodging cacti with kids.

Our braided hair that picked up salt from the Pacific Ocean.

I remember the store owner, and declared mi novío para la dia, who tells me that the souvenir hearts with wings of the city have no real meaning except to sell. I buy some thinking that it's so funny to have “no meaning” in a glass blown winged-heart ornament that to tourists represents the area. I can’t wait to gift something with no meaning, I tell him. The guy got me, but sometimes it’s nice to let yourself get got.

What I am getting at, is that there really isn’t a measurable amount of “enough-ness” to justify what makes a good memory. There’s no hierarchy when it comes to the memory of a good smile line, a perfectly hot egg sandwich, or a long list of a day with inside jokes, new foods, and a fresh 100 photos on the phone. Or, a warm day inside with games, mismatched socks, and simply hot food. They’re all lovely, and to me, they all have the same amount of weight when it comes to a good memory. A good memory is immeasurable— whether the jar is still filled with magic spices, or it’s empty. Memories are preserved in pictures, smile lines, the eggs we buy now, the games in the cabinet, and the socks that we purposefully wear mismatched to remember the good day inside. It’s the things we choose to carry.

There’s nothing new to the simple truth that smells can take us back to a memory as well. Everybody talks about the smell of coffee, or the smell of a family recipe baking in the oven that gets louder and louder in the room. Smells have strong associations, and so do little winged heart ornaments that have “no meaning.”

I name all the homes that I live in. The home I currently live in is named the “carry-on home” because when I moved into it, I figured I wouldn’t be here long. But I have been here long enough now, and words change associations over time. Being nicknamed the “carry-on home” when I first moved in, meant that I would be able to pick this place up and fit it in a suitcase for the next place I moved to. Instead of being the home that I could pack up in a carry-on suitcase, it became a home that carries all my carry-on souvenirs. It is now a home overfilling with plants, tokens, little ideas, and pieces of travel that I’ve picked up and reimagined in my home. It’s still the “carry-on home,” but with a different meaning for now.

I don’t have a bad memory, or a great memory, but I like to remember everything. It isn’t often we hear somebody say “I really want to be bad at remembering things,” although I wouldn’t mind leaving behind a few sticky bad ones if it didn’t cost me anything. I think if our minds are memory maps then it makes sense for us to naturally want to name things and tell stories. If a map was unfolded across our minds we might find vibrant cities in our lives that we found good times in. We might be able to trail our finger down a blue lined river littered with pool tubes and cold drinks that represented the easy times where everything was in flow. There might be countries that represent the places or goals we haven’t yet figured out a way to— Morocco, building a garden of rosemary and irises, learning how to drive a boat— but we will find our way there, one day.

We want to remember. When we name a place, we can find a way toward it. When we hold onto something, we can add it to our homes and our memories. Storifying and collecting might be the closest thing we have to picking and choosing what we remember in our own capacities. Storifying and collecting informs us of who we are and where we want to go. There’s a sacredness to the limited mental space we have for memories, and what a lovely and mostly unrealistic idea it would be for us to be able to pick and choose them.

My cooler cousin Steph is one of the people who has definitely infiltrated my home with words and habits I want to collect and live in that I remember when I smell my little jar of spices: travel and also get cozy at home. My “carry-on home” is dually, the home I can sink into with pieces from everywhere, and the one I can pack up quickly. 

When making a pair of earrings, I transfer meaning into something I can wear, and reiterate the importance of a memory I want to keep. I hold onto the empty jar of spices because I am afraid that if I get rid of it, I’ll forget it all. So I make these earrings, Steph’s Golden Studs, to remember her laugh and arm punch, our adventures, and her coolness. When I wear the earrings, I remember the farm in Mexico, the salty Pacific, and the confusingly beautiful bathroom that made me feel too fancy. I’m given a lesson in remaking the meaning of a home as a nest, while also being able to leave it for a while here and there. 

There’s a specialness and movement to things.