Smells of the Ocean

The car had no air conditioning, but it had hope.
An orange Volkswagen Beetle, stuffed with suitcases, snacks, and the kind of optimism only a road trip can bring. My mom, my sister, and I, all heading south from Cincinnati to Fort Lauderdale, windows down, hair tangled in the hot summer wind.

The trip was long, with Rest stops, gas stations, sweaty, melting snacks, and flat sodas. But somewhere between I-75 and I-95, the world began to change. I remember the shift as clearly as if I were watching a film: first came the cows, my mother’s voice pointing them out with childlike excitement, “Look, cows!” as though they were unicorns grazing on the side of the highway. Then, hours later, the air thickened, the light turned gold, and the landscape began to move differently.

And then, there they were.

“Palm trees!”

The moment we crossed into Florida, it was like the universe flipped a switch. Even the signs seemed to know, Welcome to the Sunshine State! a campy marker that told us we’d left behind not just Georgia, but whatever weight we carried from home. The smell hit first: warm, clean salt air that filled the car, mixed with the faint hum of asphalt, and my mother smiling in her rearview mirror.

That smell still finds me, even decades later. I can be miles from the ocean, sitting in a restaurant kitchen, and suddenly it’s there, that first breath of sea air coming through the orange Beetle’s window, carrying with it the promise that life was lighter somewhere else.

I think back on that drive and realize how much it shaped who I am. I’ve always been a people pleaser, maybe to a fault. I wanted to calm rooms before they erupted, fix what was broken, fill space with something warm. Food became the easiest language for that. It could stop the tears, end an argument, and gather people who’d forgotten they belonged together.

That trip south, that crossing from cows to palms, was my first lesson in escape and arrival. It taught me how something as invisible as air could change how you feel. It taught me how smell carries memory the way salt carries the sea. And maybe that’s why later, when I first tasted a shellfish broth, rich with tomato, ginger, and garlic, it felt like driving with the windows down again, chasing the horizon.

The memory has a flavor now.
It tastes like freedom simmered in spice.
It smells like the road to Grandma’s house.

Recipe: Spicy Calamari Diavolo

Serves 4

Ingredients

 - 1 lb fresh squid, cleaned and sliced into rings
- 3 tbsp olive oil
- 4 cloves garlic, finely sliced
- 1 inch fresh ginger, grated
- ½ tsp crushed red pepper flakes (more if you want a little more adventure)
- 1 tbsp tomato paste
- 1 can (28 oz) crushed San Marzano tomatoes
- ½ cup dry white wine
- ½ cup shellfish stock or clam juice
- Salt and pepper to taste
- 1 tbsp butter
- 1 lb linguine or spaghetti
- Fresh parsley, chopped

Instructions 1. In a large skillet, warm the olive oil over medium heat. Add garlic, ginger, and red pepper flakes. Let them sizzle gently until fragrant, don’t rush this part; the smell is the beginning of memory.
2. Stir in the tomato paste and cook until it darkens slightly, then pour in the crushed tomatoes and wine. Let it simmer, open and easy, for about 10 minutes.
3. Add the shellfish stock and a pinch of salt. Stir and let the sauce thicken while you cook the pasta.
4. Drop the squid into the simmering sauce and cook for no more than 2–3 minutes, just until tender.
5. Toss with the hot pasta and finish with butter for richness. Taste, adjust, breathe.

Memory Note:
The first breath of ocean air when you roll down the window, that’s what this dish smells like. It’s the salt and the sun, the sound of freedom, and the knowledge that you’ve left something heavy behind.