During his years in France around 1781, Benjamin Franklin turned his attention from diplomacy and trade toward a humorous yet pointed meditation on a most human dilemma: the odorous consequences of digestion. He observed that in the process of breaking down food, a considerable amount of wind is produced in the bodies of people. Because releasing this wind is often offensive to those nearby, respectable individuals tend to suppress the natural urge, risking discomfort or illness in the effort to maintain decorum.

The note, addressed in spirit to the Royal Academy of Brussels rather than to the public, was a satirical response to its prize question about packing the most smaller shapes inside a larger geometric figure. Franklin found the framing of practical utility ridiculous and proposed a far more useful inquiry: how to make the smell of flatulence more agreeable. Could science devise a harmless additive to ordinary meals that would render the resulting odor pleasant, or at least tolerable, for the company?

He floated the idea that one might prepare dinner with a compound that would alter scent, transforming dinner guests’ curiosities about wine into more fragrant conversation as well. Imagine a host who, instead of merely balancing claret or Burgundy, or whiskey and Madeira, also asking guests whether musk, lily, rose, or bergamot would accompany the meal’s aroma.

Although Franklin never sent this particular essay to the academy, he did share it with friends and eventually included it in a collection of light, trifling pieces he called bagatelles. This kind of satire was a familiar tool for him, used not only to poke fun at oddly impractical competitions but also to advocate for liberty and equality by lampooning issues like slavery, imperial dominance, and witch-hunt hysteria.