Of all the “cores” our culture has whipped through in recent years (cottagecore, normcore) the one that never gets its due is petrichor. Sure, I know that petrichor isn’t technically an Insta-worthy aesthetic trend. It merely, if magically, describes the earthy scent produced when rain falls on soil—but given the recent deluge, I think it qualifies.

As a Gen Xer, I came of age when cores only came in two flavors—hard and soft—and everyone but Eddie Rabbit treated it as either a wet leper (remember the blacktop chant “Rain, rain, go away…?”) or as a biblical panacea a la Taxi Driver’s DeNiro proselytizing that “Someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets.” (well, Bob, we’re still waiting). 

Even The Beatles had an opinion (“…might as well be dead…”) and Charlie Chaplin who said “I always like walking in the rain, so no one can see me crying,” which makes me just wanna slap him. But no one ever mentions loamy post-rain aroma in song, verse, or the twee musings of a movie clown. Until now (I wrote this for you):

J’adore

Petrichor

This could be because petrichor is a relatively new word. It was only coined in the early 60s by a pair of scientists who sought to describe what some call an “argillaceous odor”—a term I dare you to use the next time you’re wine tasting. Words of that era made their way into the lexicon more slowly than today, which is why I’ve only just found it, patted it down with a towel, and s(c)ent it to you. 

Like a lot of words that moonlight in crossword puzzles, petrichor is a fusion of a pair of ancient Greek words—in this case, stone (“pétros”) and, the mother of all cores, “ichor,” the mythic “blood of the gods.” Petrichor is yours now, do as thou wilt with it. But don’t forget to enjoy it during those moments between rainstorms. Then, for contrast, look up, inhale deeply, don’t drown.