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| 階段の向こうに広がる街 / The town stretching out beyond the staircase |
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| 階段の向こうに広がる街 / The town stretching out beyond the staircase |
When I tried sprinkling honey and cinnamon powder directly onto the dough before baking, the air couldn't escape and they puffed up huge. Since then, I've been baking them first and adding the honey and cinnamon afterward. They're delicious.
Every time I wake up to the smell of butter filling the room in the morning or before noon, I take a deep breath and let that happiness fill my body.
I liked them so much after trying them that I bought a month's supply of frozen dough on Amazon.
Amazon Link
【ARYZTA】Frozen Bread Dough Butter Croissants Made in France【75 Pieces】【Euro Bakery Tokyo】¥5,780
Shipping: ¥1,250
I bought the 75 pieces after the 20th of last month, and I still have plenty left.
I thought I'd eat 3 or 2 pieces daily, but since I sometimes crave rice, they aren't decreasing that much.
If you're interested, calculate your monthly bread budget and plan your purchase accordingly.
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| The Prince (薔薇) / The Prince (Rose) |
The Prince, the newly purchased seedling, seems to suit the garden with its lovely name and environment, having produced its fourth flower.
Watching The Prince swaying in the breeze from the window, I'm delighted I bought it—the dark red flowers really stand out in a garden with such a lovely name.
Since the plant is still young, I usually pinch off the buds to encourage stronger growth. But eager to see flowers sooner, I let one bloom as an experiment—only for it to fall apart just two days later.
Most of my roses, depending on the variety, hold their blooms for about a week after opening.
I wondered if it was because it's still young, but sure enough, after blooming, it dropped its petals immediately.
So, wanting to enjoy the flowers as long as possible, I tried placing the freshly bloomed ones in water. Even after a day, they didn't shed their petals.
The Prince variety, once fully open, has petals that curl up at the tips, which I wasn't fond of and found disappointing. But looking at the outline of the flower indoors, with its tips just slightly curled,
I was stunned: “This... isn't this the rose from The Little Prince?”
So, isn't the flower's name, “The Prince,” meant to refer to the story “The Little Prince” by Saint-Exupéry?
On top of that, it has a fragrance like osmanthus. This surprised me too.
Left to grow naturally, it would scatter its petals quickly.
But brought indoors and placed in a lovely glass vase, it blooms endlessly, releasing that golden, autumnal fragrance.
“Little Prince, she wanted you to make her your own treasure. She wanted to stay with you forever.”
Postscript
Actually, as of 2025, the rose called The Prince is not in circulation.
The reason is unclear, but apparently a company handling it in Japan announced it would stop selling seedlings.
The name The Prince, telling a story without words, a kind of elegant riddle, is touching, but it's also worth noting that this flower's scent is remarkably similar to osmanthus.
In Japan, about 30 years ago, the idea that scent could be a nuisance to others began being loudly proclaimed on the internet.
That's probably why.
Did perfume disappear? The number of people wearing it dwindled so much that there was a trend of applying scent cautiously, seeking vague reassurance from vague standards set by vague people who said things like, “A faintly scented solid perfume is acceptable.”
Now, perfume seems to be making a slight comeback. Even back then, I'd see young men at Chanel counters giving perfume to someone special.
Yet, as if odorlessness were the ultimate virtue, deodorant spray ads blared incessantly. Room fragrances multiplied in variety, overwhelming living spaces with potent scents. It became etiquette to spray deodorant even on curtains—lest lingering food smells cling to them. “Spray it on right away,” they'd say.
On top of that, it was considered good manners to leave a scent on freshly laundered clothes, so the intense, bland scent of fabric softener was encouraged.
Ultimately, it's all about making the scent stronger, right?
So why is perfume considered bad?
I was one of those people feeling utterly disheartened.
Then came the claim that planting osmanthus or silver osmanthus on balconies or in gardens causes “fragrance pollution” (← Who made up this ridiculous term?!), so we should refrain. That's why osmanthus, silver osmanthus, and gardenia trees vanished from our streets.
Apparently, some people get sick from being forced to smell strong perfume next to them on trains or buses, or they claim to be hypersensitive individuals who feel unwell around such scents.
Because such people exist, we understand their feelings, they say, appealing for sympathy. Out of kindness and consideration, let's stop using scents. After all, it's a health issue.
Well, the voices are loud, very loud.
I'm well-known as someone living with hypersensitivity—a top-three contender in Japan's HSP (Highly Sensitive Person) championships, possessing this high-functioning, still-unnamed sensitivity I don't quite understand.
Everything born from that aforementioned “Yes, let's do that!” consideration makes me feel sick and unwell, so I don't use it.
Even in rooms with room fragrance, or those spicy organic essential oils, staying too long gives me dizziness, and my throat hurts for days afterward. I kept quiet about this for decades, you know?
For some reason, perfume is fine for me.
Why is that?
Well, fabric softener makes my skin break out, so I can't use it.
If I even scratch my skin, the wound turns bright red, swells up, and gets infected, so sheets treated with fabric softener are all out too.
But hotel sheets are fine.
Strange, isn't it?
I kept quiet about this too, from birth until now.
When visiting someone else's home, I might feel warmly nostalgic thinking, “Ah, this is the smell of this house,” but I've never once thought it smelled bad.
Walking through town in the evening, when the smell of grilled meat drifts on the wind, it makes me hungry and puts me in a cheerful mood. So why is the scent of yesterday's delicious meal considered a foul odor?
I never knew that...
I've kept quiet about it all this time, though. I hardly socialize with anyone.
What's more, as someone who loves perfume, I've never once encountered someone who came out of their room doused in perfume to the point it stung my eyes, not even on buses, trains, stations, or elevators.
But I encountered such a person. Such people exist. It made me feel sick, it was painful. Only these eyewitness accounts and personal experiences were written about so strongly.
Because perfume is considered stylish, a symbol of the adult world, you panic. You get embarrassed for no reason, don't know what to do, and just want to stop others from acting mature and having that middle-aged vibe, right?
You want to stay forever childish, stuck in your teenage classroom. The only nice smells are mom's soapy scent, shampoo, and the makeup of adult women and men just scares you, doesn't it?
It's because you guys have this lolicon fetish that keeps you from entering the adult world, right? You want to stay kids forever. You want women to always have silky hair and natural makeup, to stay simple. You want men to always be unstylish—hands in pockets, wiping under their noses with their index fingers, running through fields covered in mud.
When others grow up and leave you behind, your own immaturity gets exposed, and that's embarrassing, right? That's why you want to utterly destroy these tools of adulthood, isn't it?
And then you all wear the same thick, uniform, indistinguishable scent, letting it waft off your clothes, claiming, “I'm sensitive to scents,” insisting that you alone are the ones who haven't grown up, that you're made of the most delicate, important things everyone else has forgotten, right?
Did someone burn down your hometown, you perfume lovers?
Can't you relax, knowing we're not the kind of people who'll do whatever you say, who can't choose a single thing we like for ourselves, who can't think for ourselves, who can't make our own judgments?
Whatever perfume we choose has nothing to do with you, right?
When I write about the maps in the minds of osmanthus and silver osmanthus, I embrace the fading refinement and delicacy. People who wear perfume, put on makeup, dress stylishly, and get recommendations for sake that pairs well with grilled eel from wonderful men and women—you dislike them because you can't talk to them, right?
So you start by rejecting perfume outright, then move on to beautiful fountain pens, rings, earrings, brooches—denying them all and framing them as some strange crime, right?
You don't hesitate to insist that master craftsmen's top-tier work is merely “handmade,” a term implying hobbyist, non-professional effort, do you?
If someone really did show up drenched in perfume from head to toe, wouldn't they just need medical help? Why does everyone else's scent become “all stinky” just because you notice it?
Don't you need medical help too?
I've kept quiet even when products you thought were considerate and safe made me feel sick and unwell.
Why don't you do as I do? When you catch a whiff, move to another car immediately with a blank expression. If you're on the street or in a station, breathe through your mouth and walk quickly until you're far enough away that the unpleasant scent fades.
Don't tell me you didn't know this one trick, even though scents have been making you sick for so long.
Let's both quietly maintain our own health without disrupting the beauty of the world—where others enjoy scents, or say things like, “So-and-so's mom is such a great cook!” or “I love the smell of So-and-so's house too!”
From Enamel.

















