As I write this, Día de Muertos, Day of the Dead, is just around the corner. In Mexico it's a time of cultural reflection on the idea of death, which is really a meditation on the substance of life. And this bears directly on my inquiry into the nature of Life, as related by perfume. I plan to distill, for essential oil, the brilliant blossoms of the marigold known locally as cempasúchil, which we should venerate, for they serve as the core of this rich festividad. In my view, it is the flowers' perfume, more than their brilliant color, that will serve as a docent, guiding the souls of the dead back to the realm of the living.
I distill plants in San Miguel de Allende for their aromatic oils and waters. I've distilled and co-distilled plants such as roses, pirul, cedron, jara, estafiate, cannabis, citrus blends, and a number of rosemary, lavender and lavandin blends, among others. But we'll get to that shortly. First, let's consider the subject of how we perceive plant perfumes at altitude. I'm writing this from my home in San Miguel, where fragrant vapors are said to cut loose more readily from their sources, owing to our elevation of 2000 meters above sea level. Okay, but do we really understand how this bears on our experience of perfume?
To begin, I should clarify this: by perfume, I mean perfume sensu lato—that's perfume considered broadly—molecular transmissions of living things, particularly plants—communication by means of emissive chemical principles.
So I'll be taking up the matter of perfume from the atmospheric standpoint here in San Miguel de Allende. But before anything else, I'd like to provide an abbreviated exposition on perfume per se.
Most agree, the evolution of life on Earth endures as an opaque marvel, difficult to grasp. Yet few are aware that this improbable phenomenon comes with a key to its interpretation. That key is perfume.
Perfume tells us where we come from and where we are going. Perfume tells us what we risk losing, and how to hold on to it. Perfume identifies the threats to what we hold dear, and reveals the identities of malefactors.
In my book series, The Perfume of Life trilogy, I devote several hundred pages to making the case that perfume is the fundamental currency of information among living beings. I understand that you, reading these words, are not likely to have had the opportunity or the resolve or even a reason to work through my manifesto. But believe me, it's a solid case. Perfume, in its primeval origins and heritage throughout the phyla of Life, in its ubiquity throughout environments on Earth, is unrivaled as the elemental messaging medium of Life.
Perfumes are drawn to Life, with affinity to living tissue. Perfumes convey information that relates to Life as no other medium of communication does. Perfumes are high-fidelity expressions of Life.
So how are these storytelling molecules affected by the elevational conditions around here?
To start, let's consider our flora: San Miguel is not so strong when it comes to aromatic plants, albeit vegetation here is enchanting in its own right. Winter mornings can be a bit chilly for local bees, who, in December, are most likely to be observed doing their work during a window of time in the afternoon. On the other hand, hummingbirds are in their element here, and a number of species are known to flourish in this area. Thus the chromatic spectrum of floral tones coloring our landscapes tends to skew towards the reds (of flowers that are primarily bird-pollinated) rather than the blues (of flowers that are primarily bee-pollinated). Let's keep in mind that hummingbirds don't much perceive odors, so blossoms designed to lure their visitation are rarely scentful, which is in contrast with the redolent flowers inviting to bees. The upshot is that the olfactive character of our local flowering vegetation is attenuated.
Yet there are countervailing influences. Volatiles from all kinds of organic materials readily take flight, eagerly becoming airborne thanks to the reduced pressure of ambient air. So, as a matter of physics, the lower atmospheric pressure here enhances our perception of perfume. And likewise, we can, in theory, perceive a greater variety of aromatic elements in the environment here.
But there's another countervailing factor that may be offsetting, in that the air is thinner, which is to say that there are fewer volatile molecules contained in any given parcel of air that we encounter. So, all this begs the question: at this altitude, which is it, an olfactive upgrade or downgrade? And which is it, are scents here more or less intense? The right answer looks to be: it depends.
For there's yet another detail, this one relating to human physiology. During periods of the year in San Miguel when ambient humidity is low, our nasal mucous membranes are prone to becoming dehydrated, in which event our olfactive and gustative senses may become compromised. This is because our olfactory receptors need a moist environment to function well. Bearing this in mind, we might better understand the airplane-cabin tomato-juice effect. Humidity in airplane cabins is uncommonly low, ten to twenty percent, which is sure to diminish our capacity to perceive scents, and hence our capacity to taste food. So some (I'm in this group) crave tomato juice even though we rarely drink it on the ground. The idea is that the acidity and savory notes of the juice will serve to cut through our dulled senses.
But this isn't to compare San Miguel to a plane cabin. There isn't much real correlation, and even if there were, our brains recalibrate when we live at this elevation. We acclimate psychologically to factors physiological and physical.
And then again, plants acclimate too. They may compensate for the dampening of their redolence and become more fragrant. Or they may just shift in the character of what they radiate. And since they join with pollen vectors in coevolution, we can expect that reciprocal adaptations are the usual. An example of plants accommodating their surroundings comes to mind: The herb, thyme, is known to comprise chemotypes, groups of plants that differ from each other in aromatic profile. There are distinct thyme populations that grow in harsh, dry conditions, and are known for their aggressive, germicidal, or "hot" essential oils. We refer to these groups as phenolic chemotypes. They are distinguishable by the molecule, thymol. And there are populations that grow in cooler, milder environments, often on higher ground, and are known for their ethereal essential oils. We refer to these groups as terpene alcohol chemotypes. They are distinguishable by the molecule, linalol. There are countless such taxonomic examples that relate to plant perfumes.
We might also consider that scented products, as they age, will have the air of being less fresh at our elevation. This is due to the accelerated evaporation of low boiling point chemical principles, fleeting citrus monoterpenes for instance, which we associate with naturalness. Thus fragrances overall may transition quickly to seeming less bright and toppy. And should a vial of essential oil be left uncapped for a period, its profile will evolve more readily at our elevation, soon giving the impression of being flat and heavy.
As a sidenote, given that I enjoy the culinary traditions of Central Mexico as much as the next foodaholic, (and recalling the central role of olfaction in gustation), I don't mind detouring for a moment to consider perfumes of the plate. And since travelers visit here to experience the cuisine, I'll take up the matter of San Miguel as a high-elevation destination on the global food map. But let's keep in mind that visitors here, unaccustomed to the reduced oxygen availability, often suffer from mild neurological hypoxia. And yes, this too will blunt their perception of gastronomic perfumes. So I'm tempted to invoke the airplane-cabin tomato-juice effect when accounting for the cuisine here on the Mexican altiplano. After all, airplane cabins are pressurized to roughly simulate the barometric pressure of San Miguel (this is true!), or even higher elevations. But in reality, people acclimate to altitude, as full-time residents here surely have, and our tamales and pozoles and cazuelas and moles have not evolved merely to cut through dulled senses. More likely, such high-elevation cooking is a biocultural expression, the result of reciprocal accommodation between nature and culture over long spans of time. (Nevertheless, remember that steam is less hot at this altitude than at sea level, so be sure to cook your tamales for longer in San Miguel than you would in Puerto Vallarta!)
It is worth noting that the classic Mediterranean climate, characteristic of the region in southern France renowned as essential oil country, is almost the climatic opposite of ours. There, winters are mild and wet, encouraging the proliferation of vegetative tissues and roots. The summers that follow are hot, dry, and long, conditions ideal for the copious production of volatile oils. In contrast, plants adapted to our local climate face entirely different conditions of seasonality. Here, our winters bring occasional freezes and frequent droughts, which encourage dormancy rather than growth. Then, what follows is a stretch of hot and dry weather that typically lasts for less than three months, not enough time for much oil production. After that comes our rainy summer season, which is so wet that oil production is actually discouraged.
Still and all, our local flora includes a good number of aromatic plants that invite our interest. Below, I'll list some I've visited, to harvest, in each case, a distinct complement of fragrant principles.
In any event, and as another brief aside, I'd like to air a concern of mine, the lack of interest in locally produced essential oils. Is this not a measure of disconnection with local Living Nature? While there are those who engage with the vegetation of the Bahio in the context of Mexico's rich tradition of herbalism, there is perhaps only one person in San Miguel who is actively interested in the aromatic principles of our regional plants. That person is me. Is this an overstatement? Probably. Yet as far as I know, save for two or three others who come to mind, I'm the only one here who appreciates the deep meaning embodied by the perfumes of our endemic flora. Is there anyone else mindful that the fragrant exudations of these plants are agents of Nature, biologically compounded, concentrated, sequestered, and eventually sent on their way, released into the environment as dispersive organic emissaries, provocative vapors serving as envoys, specifically crafted for transmission by flight mission, to carry situational information about this place, San Miguel de Allende? But essential oil enthusiasts here rarely express much interest in locally distilled oils and hydrosols. Most instead trade in far-flung aromatic oils procured from one of two organizations, Young Living or DoTERRA, multi-level marketing concerns that I reflect on here.
When it comes to distillation, operations at higher elevations tend to be protective of labile, thermally sensitive aromatic principles, on account that boiling points are lower at altitude, allowing such systems to operate at reduced temperatures. As a result, fragile molecules and compounds are less prone to decomposition and hydrolysis. And, guess what?—these delicate principles are often the most desirable, expressing qualities of naturalness, nuance, and subtle radiance.
However, without specialized design, these same labile components are threatened with chemical degradation or conversion or loss during the distillation process. Ideally, particularly at higher elevations, the system should be closed and tight, and condensation should be rapid and efficient. Which brings me to introduce the striking apparatus we're fortunate to operate here in San Miguel de Allende. (And I'll apologize in advance, as this description might turn a tad into the technical.)
Fabricated entirely of glass, each component of this hydrodistillation system is designed in relation to the others. The 50-liter round retort rests on a bed of sand, the plant charge naturally moves around, and vapors need to rise only a short distance to reach the point of their phase transition. They open upward into the reverse cold-finger condenser, which has an aperture that's extra-wide and is held at an ice-cold temperature by an industrial chiller, thus effectively confronting the velocity of surging vapors and preventing back flow pressures, limiting their reflux. The condensate then flows through a takeaway tube that transfers it into a Squibb separatory funnel, which allows for the cohobation of hydrosol as an option. It's a tightly closed system and the duration of distillation is shortened, so as a result, the fate of our most treasured aroma principles is improved.
Actually, the full set of considerations is a bit more complicated, but the idea is clear enough? Our apparatus is capable of producing rather elegant oils, exalting even. Moreover, it serves as a great teaching tool, on account of being made purely of glass, so we can visually observe in real time each phase of the transformation, by which aromatic plant material transitions into essential oil and hydrosol.
Locally in San Miguel I've distilled plants including cempasúchil (Tagetes erecta), eucalipto rojo (Eucalyptus camaldulensis), cedron (Aloysia triphylla), jenjibre (Zingiber officinalis), pericón (Tagetes lucida), milenrama (Achillea millefolium), verbena común (Verbena officinalis), pirul (Schinus molle), salvia real (Salvia clevelandii), cedro blanco (Hesperocyparis lusitanica), estafiate (Artemisia ludoviciana ssp. mexicana), and a few others.
There is a conceptual premise to the work. It undergirds all the distillations. I think it's best presented this way:
Plants diversely emit bouquets of volatile compounds that are immeasurably dynamic, organic expressions inhabiting distinct points in space and moments of time, vapors contingent on streams of circumstances, situational perfumes not amenable to reverse-engineering, and this irreversibility is an ever-present condition of Life, being the story of countless living things that almost never were and never will be again. I distill these fragrant volatiles to yield singular essential oils and aromatic waters, or hydrosols.
The discerning essential oil enthusiast understands that there isn't much fixed or absolute or universal in the Natural World. There is not oneness, instead there is one-of-a-kindness. Thus local distillates I produce constitute a sui generis collection, which I've designated as Impossible Oils and Waters.
Impossible Oils and Waters are measureless and unrepeatable, distilled in apparatus made entirely of glass, and favored by the low-pressure sky of the Central Mexican altiplano. We regard these artisanal perfumes as one-off curiosities of Creation, to be found nowhere else and never before, in no other place and to be produced nevermore, distilled exclusively from local plants in the municipality of San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato.
Next planned distillation: immortelle (Helichrysum italicum). Then, cempasúchil (Tagetes erecta).
I've chronicled many of my distillations here.
You can find my Substack here.
I also write on Medium. The Perfume of Life trilogy is featured here.
You can order my books here.
And you'll be able to find Impossible Oilshere.
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Aaron S. Reisfield resides in San Miguel where he makes art, music, and perfume. He has spent stretches of time collecting plants throughout montane Mexico, and as a Visiting Scholar in Botany at The University of Texas in Austin. He has curated a reference library of fragrant extracts for artistic and intellectual investigation. He has published a book series, The Perfume of Life trilogy, premised on the idea that the story of Life on Earth is best related in the language of molecules—the language of perfume. He founded Avant Garde Aromatica, a program of workshops, salons, and guided studies in the poetry and science of plant perfumes. He distills plants for their fragrant oils and waters, and is producing the line of artisanal extracts called Impossible Oils and Waters.
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