The Scent of Winter, Here and There

When people speak of seasonal scents, spring blossoms, summer beaches, or autumn leaves often come to mind. But what does winter smell like?

Growing up in a country that celebrates the Lunar New Year, winter has always carried for me both a deep sense of nostalgia and a quiet anticipation of what is to come. In the weeks leading up to Tết, the air itself seemed different—heavy with steam, tinged with the damp earth after a light drizzle. There was the smell of fruit piled high at the local market, of fresh produce delivered at dawn, of canna leaves prepared to wrap bánh chưng. And when Tết arrived, its scent o was never just one thing. It was the fragrance of peach blossoms and kumquat trees—two indispensable decorations of the season. It was the smoke of incense rising from the ancestral altar, the faint bitterness of burnt votive paper offered to the departed. It was the smell of green bánh chưng, rich with fatty pork and pickled onions; of a pot of chicken and bamboo shoots slowly simmering; of candied fruits and fragrant tea laid out for guests.

It is impossible to count how many scents blended together to form the smell of Tết. Yet the most important element binding them all was not food or flowers, but the scent of family reunion itself. Simply being together—whole, unhurried, complete—was enough to create the true “fragrance of Tết.”

There are spiritual values in Tết that are not as immediately visible as food or clothing. Like a delicate scent, they are fragile and fleeting, opening quiet realms of the soul—memories and emotions that can only be sensed when we slow down and still our minds.

Moving to Japan, those scents gradually faded into memory. Winter here no longer carries the same sense of anticipation tied to a single holiday. And yet, in their place, I discovered a different kind of winter fragrance—one that is quieter, but no less distinctive.

There is the sweet, comforting aroma of yaki-imo, slow-roasted on hot stones, drifting through narrow streets in the evening. There is the gentle, savory scent of oden broth rising softly from a pot at a combini or a small street stall around the corner. And then there is the air itself: crisp, dry, almost metallic, especially when snow begins to fall.

As snow descends, it feels as though it absorbs everything—smells, sounds, even movement. The world grows muted, nearly scentless. Yet perhaps that absence is a scent of its own. In that stillness, winter becomes most vivid, defined not by what is present, but by what quietly disappears.

Between my hometown and Japan, winter smells different. One is rich, layered and overflowing; the other is sparse, restrained and hushed. And somewhere between the two, I am learning that winter’s scent is not always about what fills the air—but about what lingers, softly, in memory.