Green

Absinth smells like the ghost of a licorice sweet that's been sharpened with something menthol-keen and herbaceous. Imagine biting into a fresh anise seed, then the bite transforms into something green and slightly bitter—like wormwood leaves crushed between your fingers, with whispers of mint and wet grass. There's an almost medicinal quality, reminiscent of old apothecary cabinets and absinthe liqueur itself. It's simultaneously sweet and austere, inviting yet slightly unsettling—the scent equivalent of something beautiful but dangerous.

Acacia leaf smells like a freshly mown meadow kissed by morning dew—crisp, slightly herbaceous, with an almost cucumber-like coolness. Imagine crushing green leaves between your fingers and catching that bright, slightly bitter vegetal snap, without the heavy grassiness of hay. There's a whisper of freshness that's clean and almost metallic, like the green smell of a stem just snapped in half. It's verdant without being earthy—more "living leaf" than "potted plant."

Alpine herbs smell like standing in a mountain meadow on a crisp morning—fresh, slightly peppery, and clean without being soapy. Imagine the green, almost minty aroma of crushed sage leaves mixed with the sharp bite of rosemary, undercut by a whisper of thyme. There's an herbaceous, almost medicinal quality—reminiscent of herb tea or the scent released when you brush past wild plants on a hiking trail. It's intensely verdant and bracing, with a subtle earthiness that grounds the brightness.

Argentinian maté smells like freshly steeped green tea with a grassy, slightly smoky undertone—imagine the vegetal warmth of dried hay mixed with bitter herbs and a whisper of smoke from a distant campfire. There's an earthy, almost mineral quality that recalls wet grass after rain, coupled with subtle woodiness. It's refreshingly herbaceous without being medicinal, with a faint toasted-grain character that makes it feel comforting rather than austere. Think of the aroma wafting from a traditional gourd of maté being shared amongst friends at dusk.

Bay leaf smells like stepping into a Mediterranean kitchen—herbaceous, slightly peppery, and unmistakably savoury. It's green and fresh with a subtle warmth underneath, reminiscent of crushed dried leaves and dried thyme, but with an almost minty coolness that catches the back of your nose. There's something simultaneously culinary and aromatic about it, neither purely floral nor entirely spicy. If you've ever rubbed a bay leaf between your fingers and inhaled, that's precisely the character: slightly bitter, gently warming, and deeply earthy.

Birch leaf smells like crisp spring air captured in a bottle. Imagine crushing fresh green leaves between your fingers on a cool morning—there's a clean, slightly herbal bite with undertones of subtle sweetness and a whisper of something almost minty. It's the scent of early woodland walks: green, bright, and slightly peppery, with a delicate dryness reminiscent of hay and pale wood shavings. Not floral, not fruity—purely, refreshingly vegetative.

Black basil smells distinctly different from the bright, peppery green basil you'd find in a kitchen. Imagine biting into fresh basil leaves, then imagine that moment deepening—becoming earthier, slightly woody, with an almost medicinal undertone. There's a subtle aniseed whisper beneath, reminiscent of liquorice or fennel, yet more shadowed and sophisticated. It carries the green vegetal crispness of basil but wrapped in something more complex: a touch of leather, a hint of smoke, and an underlying sweetness that feels dark rather than bright. Think of basil leaves wilting in autumn light rather than glistening with morning dew.

Broom smells like freshly mown grass mixed with something slightly peppery and herbaceous, with an almost almond-like sweetness lurking beneath. Imagine walking through a sun-warmed meadow after rain, where wild shrubs release their green juices into the air. It's crisp and airy, with a hint of hay and something distinctly vegetal—not quite floral, more like the green snap you'd get from crushing fresh stems between your fingers. There's a whisper of bitterness too, like biting into green tomato skin.