Today, I baked Madeleine. Somehow, I haven’t made it for many years. Of course, I re-read the passage by the French author Marcel Proust, which talked about the memories brought up by the taste of tea with this tiny scallop-shaped cake.
Memories can sometimes reside in a particular smell or taste. When I returned to my hometown in the summer— I hadn’t been back in the summer since college— nothing remained the same, the buildings, the people, but the fragrance of the White Sandalwood flowers (黄角兰). It was so rich, came with the warm air, disappeared, and came back again.
Suddenly, a scene came to my mind: When I was a kid, in the morning, on my way to school, an aged woman was selling white sandalwood flowers on the street. Two or three flowers were threaded on a white string, placed in a bamboo knitted pan, and sold for ten or twenty cents. My mom would buy me the flowers. We wore them as a brooch or a necklace or kept them in our pockets. The fragrance lasts for two to three days. This smell reminded me of my childhood, being loved by my parents; it reminded me of the peace and quietness on the streets; it was an art of living in a time of scarcity, and became a nourishment for me growing up.
As the taste of Madeleine lingered, we read the quote from In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust.
“No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory – this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me it was me. ... Whence did it come? What did it mean? How could I seize and apprehend it? ... And suddenly the memory revealed itself. The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before mass), when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it. And all from my cup of tea.”
Do you experience a similar moment?
Suddenly, a scene came to my mind: When I was a kid, in the morning, on my way to school, an aged woman was selling white sandalwood flowers on the street. Two or three flowers were threaded on a white string, placed in a bamboo knitted pan, and sold for ten or twenty cents. My mom would buy me the flowers. We wore them as a brooch or a necklace or kept them in our pockets. The fragrance lasts for two to three days. This smell reminded me of my childhood, being loved by my parents; it reminded me of the peace and quietness on the streets; it was an art of living in a time of scarcity, and became a nourishment for me growing up.
As the taste of Madeleine lingered, we read the quote from In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust.
“No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory – this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me it was me. ... Whence did it come? What did it mean? How could I seize and apprehend it? ... And suddenly the memory revealed itself. The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before mass), when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it. And all from my cup of tea.”
Do you experience a similar moment?
