The smell of oranges reminds me of things that are not oranges. Eating sticky, glossy Ring Pops in the backseat of the car with my sister; that artificial candy smell. And stirring big, round pitchers of frozen orange juice concentrate into water with a wooden spoon, while I stand on a stool wearing my grandma’s too big apron, using both small hands so as not to lose my grip. It matched grandma’s cheap orange blossom perfume, made stronger by the heat of the summer.