Let’s start with poetry.  Who has not read Michael Ondaatje’s highly-charged poem The Cinnamon Peeler and been left breathless by the final lines:

“I am the cinnamon peeler’s wife.

 Smell me.”

I have sat with cinnamon peelers, all lean men with rolling fingers.  They sit cross-legged, working the bark with quiet concentration, and the scent of cinnamon does indeed fill the warm air.