Edible Memories

They have a scallop-shell shape and the good ones should have a crispy exterior and a soft, moist interior: the famed madeleine so well described and revered by Marcel Proust in his magisterial Remembrance of Things Past.

The seven-volume magnum opus, À la recherche du temps perdu, published between 1913 and 1927, became associated with involuntary memory and “the episode of the madeleine,” in which the central character, Marcel, sips tea and nibbles a petite madeleine which causes him to recall involuntarily many pleasant childhood memories of visits to his grandparents.

It was just a cookie, but for Proust they were the very essence of memory. We all know that from our own experiences–and that is really what makes food so important. Sure it can be an expensive meal at the best Michelin-starred restaurant, or a simple homey plate of pasta that you cook for friends. At the end of the day, intricate sauces and delicate preparations–or delectable meat balls–come down to a simple case of memory: we remember friends and family–current or sadly past–around the dinner table talking and laughing and having a good time.

In the moment; treasuring the moment.

Even the solitary food itself evokes memory–it is one of its most enduring qualities. A single flavour or taste, an ephemeral aroma that wafts away ceiling-ward can stoke a lifetime of memories. It’s only a humble banana, the silliest, most goofy, slapstick fruit, but it is one indeliably etched in my memory.

I remember being a kid and my eyes barely reached the top of the kitchen counter and yet I recall distinctly my mother’s house-coat as she stood and expertly sliced a banana for my cereal in the morning. The way she held the paring knife: her fingers cupped gently around and part-way down the blade. I marvelled that she didn’t cut herself.

The last nip of banana: an edible memory.

I remember distinctly–without fail–she would always take the last nip of banana and pop it in her mouth. Always. But no, it doesn’t matter what the truth and depth of always is: even if she didn’t eat it, even if, when I turned my head away for just an instance and the banana nip ended up in my puffed wheat or oatmeal, it is what the food memory is telling me now.

That’s the wonder of it. The sheer warm joy. A banana nip.

Today, decades later, I’ll bet she still takes that last nip of banana and pops it in her mouth, whether it is for breakfast cereal or for baking a banana bread. That memory commands me: I love bananas on my cereal. I cut them neatly in near-exact, thick-coin-shapes. I listen with each slice: the sound they make when they plop gently and crisply onto my bran flakes or shredded wheat. The last nip goes directly into my mouth and never sees the cereal bowl.

It’s an edible memory that I’m enjoying.