13 November—Pong continues to perplex. But first, as I was splitting a poor little derelict white ash log yesterday, it occurred to me that in addition to being a strong, usually unpleasant odor, Pong with a capital P was an early computer-generated video arcade game. In fact, as I recall, my second wife and I actually played it on our very first date in 1976. I think it was at a restaurant in Windsor and she won. Naturally.

Back to the subject at hand (or nose), then, several emails came in yesterday about the distinctive olfactory sensation of pot, all but one on the side of skunk spray. The anonymously astute author of that one was “amazed that none of the responders to [my] column about the smell of pot, or at least the ones [I] quoted, compared the aroma to burning leaves. That remains the best description of the smell, according to all the drug education [the anonymous correspondent] absorbed as a youth. Of course, leaf burning is now frowned upon, so maybe it’s that latter scent with which those readers are unfamiliar.”

Good point. But leaf burning isn’t frowned upon in Connecticut, it’s absolutely forbidden in this goddamned state. Brush, okay. Leaves, forget it. Unless you secrete the leaves (along with other open-burning contraband) under the bureaucratically acceptable brush with a maximum diameter of three inches (and presumably stripped of all leaves). And I think that all the correspondents are of sufficient maturity to remember when leaf burning didn’t get you sent up the river, even in Connecticut.

When I was growing up in Forest Hills, before the advent of string trimmers and leaf blowers and way before marvelous zero-turn mowers, I loved the smell of burning leaves. Almost as good as Duco model cement in little sniff-size tubes. (Now I know why I assembled so many wood models.) Could there have been cannabis leaves hidden among the fallen London plane and maple foliage? Could that be why the landscaper always seemed so happy in the autumn?

But I digress. It’s only just occurred to me that the correspondents who claim to find the smell of pot appealing and good don’t, however, describe the actual smell. Is it possible, then, that the aromatic positivists might find the bouquet of sulfurous compounds pleasant? One person’s pleasant, after all, may be another’s disagreeable.

Diligent research is in order: What is the actual smell of pot—raw, processed, burning, and whatever else it is or does? And, while you’re at it, do different varieties of cannabis have different smells at the various stages of cultivation, processing, and use? Did do you actually like the smell or just the feel-good association? Have you ever tried baking pot-spiked brownies or other goodies?

The pong’s in your court . . .