The matriarchs in my family have always centered their day around bathing. There’s my 93-year-old Danish grandmother, who has long subscribed to the daily ritual of sitting in shallow lukewarm water. And my shower-averse mother, who refuses to adhere to a specific time in which to submerge in a steaming hot tub. Pre-breakfast, post-afternoon nap, before bed? Please do not disturb. In this way, I am my mother’s daughter.
A brief history of my life in baths: I am 4, surrounded by rubber ducks, unconcerned about anything but said bliss. I am 12, stealing my mother’s razor, enamored at the traces of hair disappearing with each smooth glide across my leg. I am heartbroken, allowing the warmth of the water to soothe my physically aching body. I am bone-tired in my early 20s, arriving in New York City and greeted with a bathroom decorated with lit candles and the soundscape of Enya’s “Only Time.” I am anxious, allowing the marriage of Sam Fragoso’s hypnotic voice on his Talk Easy podcast and marinating in bathwater for 45 minutes to work its magic. On almost every occasion, I’m stewing in the same slime-green water, courtesy of Badedas Original Indulgent Bath Gelee.
This German bathroom staple has been a favorite in my family since the late ’70s, after my grandmother discovered it in a pharmacy in England, where she had moved to from Denmark two decades earlier. By the ’80s, the brand became known for its deliberately provocative, purposely cheesy adverts; often featuring a half-naked woman and a romantic room with a view. Jilly Cooper, queen bee of the raunchy read during that period, would often reference Badedas in her novels. In the ’90s my mother, who learned about Badedas from her mother, started pouring it into my bath. I’ve used it ever since. There have been some minor flirtations with bath salts, essential oils, and glitter-infused bombs over the years (predominantly as a guest at friends’ homes), but this bath gelée is like coming home — a comfort to return to. It creates this distinctly sexy, almost theatrical blanket of bubbles — think Julia Roberts singing “Kiss” in Pretty Woman — that will last a solid hour. A little goes a long way (due to its rich concentration, you only really need a teaspoon or so per soak). And no, in case you were worried, it won’t leave a green stain on your bathtub, though prepare for a mound of lingering bubble residue post-drain (often I forget to fully rinse it away, though thankfully my boyfriend has yet to show any signs he’s bothered by such idleness).
Mostly, the singular scent is addictively transportive. Nostalgic. A great escape in a bottle for the holiday deprived, Instagram overexposed. Its signature herbal, almost pine-y fragrance is endlessly relaxing — enriched with horse-chestnut extract and glycerine to improve circulation and hydrate. My skin feels soft enough afterward I can skip moisturizer (handy, as smothering lotion all over my body is a bi-annual undertaking). For a spell it feels as though I’m in an enchanting woodland lodge with a bad Wi-Fi signal, preparing for an evening of reading Siddhartha in bed and little else before falling into an undisturbed ten-hour slumber. I can think of no greater little luxury.
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