I love magazines. Ever since I was a little girl, I’d plop down on the floor with a pile in front of me, paging through articles and dog-earing their pages. These days, my two daughters join me on the carpet. But before I let them crack the covers, I follow a familiar ritual: Weeding through the pages, pulling out the fragrance samples and taking them to the outside trash. The magazines still smell faintly of the synthetic fragrance inserts that litter their pages, but at least the majority of scent is gone.