How Jitterbug is Different
What This Means for You
✨ Variation is normal. Color, texture, and viscosity will differ batch to batch. This isn't inconsistency—it's evidence of real botanical processes at work.
✨ These aren't dupes. I'm not trying to recreate commercial perfumes. I'm making something that couldn't exist within their constraints.
✨ Time matters. Aging and steeping mean each scent has a timeline. Some batches sit for months before release.
✨ Small-batch by necessity. These techniques don't scale. Each bottle represents hands-on work.
Think of Jitterbug as:
A botanical apothecary, not a perfume counter
Small-batch spirits, not factory vodka
Artisan tea blends, not Lipton
Craft brewing philosophy applied to scent
If you want uniform, predictable, commercial-looking perfume, there are plenty of places to get that. If you want potions that smell like nowhere else and show their process—welcome.
Not Your Typical Indie Perfume
Most indie perfume brands blend aromachemicals and bottle them. I do something else entirely.
I'm a brewer first, perfumer second. After 25+ years working and playing in perfumery, craft beer, aromatherapy, herbology, botany, natural history, gardening and more, I bring fermentation science, barrel-aging, and botanical extraction techniques to scent-making. This means:
Barrel-aging: Scents mature in oak or glass for weeks or months, allowing notes to integrate and mellow like spirits
Tea-steeping: Cold infusion with botanical teas adds layers that can't be achieved through conventional extraction
Icing/cold maceration: Slows volatile evaporation, creating deeper saturation
Culinary botanicals: I work with ingredients you'd find in a kitchen or apothecary, not just a perfume lab
Ah, the wafting symphony of olfactory escapades! Imagine, if you will, a quirky tale of scents as narrated by the inimitable Tom Robbins in "Jitterbug Perfume."
Picture this: an effervescent childhood with a nose always a-twitch, concocting potions that would make even Pan the god of forests nod in approval. At the tender age of twelve, back in the mystical year of 1988, the Perfume House in Portland became my temple of choice. It was there that I embarked on a fragrant odyssey, selecting Sung by Alfred Sung—a perfume not for the faint of heart, but a veritable essence of invincibility. Its heady, thick, honey-sweet floral aura, with a finale of French oil and musky, spicy Oriental undertones, was a declaration of my youthful bravado.
Fast forward to my teenage years, when the scent of freedom beckoned. With friends, we stumbled upon an essential oils shop—a wonderland where my passion for aromatic alchemy blossomed. The possibilities were endless, a fragrant playground for the imagination.
Ah, the nostalgic scents of yesteryears! Giorgio Beverly Hills, a potion that transformed my third-grade teacher's purse into a vessel of intoxicating aroma, thanks to an accidental spill. My mother, the embodiment of freshness with her Calyx—a crisp, clean grapefruit symphony. Special occasions were graced by the muguet white lily essence of Diorissimo or the lingering whispers of White Shoulders, which adorned our hallway like invisible garlands.
My grandmother, a connoisseur of Violette, though more an admirer of its bottle, smelled of Avon Skin So Soft during sun-drenched summers. The laundry queens, my mother and grandmother, their garments imbued with scents that danced in the air—far removed from the mundane laundry of today. An uncle's French expedition yielded a pearlescent treasure: Noa by Cacharel, a fragrance that captivated the senses.
As a self-proclaimed sniffer of scents, I reveled in the symphony of round, purple, grapey, musky, spicy, grassy, citrus, and warm notes. Single scents held me in thrall—grass, dirt, tomato, honey—the very essence of life. Commercial soapy scents? Not my cup of tea, save for the nostalgic charm of Irish Spring. And I, ever the scent enthusiast, eagerly share my favorites—apricot, honey, jasmine, freesia, lemon, patchouli (yes, I know), black pepper, cardamom, vanilla, and blackberry.
Household scents too, etched in memory: laundry detergent, Oil of Olay, and the summer dance of warm and cold air between the fir trees. Perhaps, dear reader, a memory or two may surface, casting you back to your own aromatic journey as you traverse this fragrant landscape...
So, let's wander this aromatic labyrinth together, one scent at a time.
