By: Robert R. Sachs
You are heading to Grandma’s house for yet another family gathering. Upon entering the front door, you are belted by a thunderclap of the smells of mothballs, yellowed plastic sofa covers, cat hair and foot powder. As you regain your bearings, the mellifluous under notes of Grandma’s apple pie reach you: tiny, moist, fragrant, individually encapsulated particles of Granny Smiths, butter and sugar, all borne upon the dry, hard air like foam upon breaking waves. You beeline to the kitchen, bypassing the hubbub of family, friends and distant cousins congregating in the living room.