À la recherche du temps perdu
À la recherche du temps perdu
[In
Search of Lost Time or Remembrance of Things Past]
One day, according
to legend, 38-year-old Marcel Proust (1871-1922) had a taste of a small French cake,
a madeleine to be precise, which miraculously conjured up vivid memories of his
childhood and all sorts of other stuff lurking in his subconscious. He started writing them down and never
stopped until his death—the results being seven published volumes totaling around
3,200 pages in French and 4,300 pages in English translation. The expression “Madeleine
de Proust” entered the French lexicon to signify anything (smells, sounds,
tastes, sensations) that evokes childhood memories.
Despite having
served as a young missionary in the France-Belgium Mission (1972-1974), I had
never even heard of a madeleine, let alone tasted one, so when Delys and I were
called to the France-Paris Mission, I decided we should have a taste of one at
the first opportunity. Accordingly, “madeleine” was the first item we put on
our shopping list after arriving in Paris, so we purchased a small package of
madeleines at the neighborhood Carrefour and hurried home with it and our other
purchases. I immediately opened the package in the kitchen and pulled out a
madeleine. The anticipation of this first tasting of Proust’s magic little cake
almost overcame me, but I steadied myself, took a deep cleansing and calming
breath, and launched myself into a legitimate Proustian experience. I took a moderate
bite and chewed the madeleine gently while savoring it in my mouth.
It was . . . underwhelming
. . . disappointing . . . bland and blah. It was . . . nothing . . . less than nothing. Tout
à fait nul, as the French say, absolutely useless. Not at all what I had expected.
As usual, Delys urged
me to look on the bright side of things. “Cheer up!” she exclaimed. “Now you
don’t have to write seven volumes of effete, self-centered, and horribly affected
intellectual drivel.”
I thought it
over. She was absolutely right. I had dodged the autobiographical bullet that (along
with asthma, allergies, alcohol, and probably some sort of funky STD) eventually
killed Proust.
Nevertheless, I pondered privately about what had gone wrong and soon realized that the magic wasn’t in the madeleine at all, but in Proust’s memory of having tasted it as a child. For me, then, it would have to be a Big Hunk or a Baby Ruth or a Sidewalk Sundae or (even better) an A&W Root Beer in a large, frosted mug delivered to my car on a tray by a wizened, five-foot-tall, fifty-year-old female carhop on roller skates named Pearl. Or maybe even my mom’s stroganoff or blueberry pies or perhaps my grandma’s cinnamon rolls or home-bottled pears and peaches. Food for thought.
Then, a few weeks
later, I had an actual Proustian moment when I bit off and chewed the tip of a traditional
baguette (baguette tradi) from a boulangerie artisan (made and baked on the premises)
while walking home, instead of the inferior substitute we had been purchasing
at the local Carrefour.
Boom!
Suddenly, I was
back in Épinal, my first city as a young missionary, overwhelmed by memories from
that time: Elder Peacock, my trainer, gesturing at a slammed apartment door like
an angry Italian waiter, exclaiming “Ça! Ça m’énerve!”; eating a glace au fraise
cone at the park feeling the summer breeze and watching the Moselle flow by
while doing a bit of informal park contacting; having morning companion study
with Elder Martin in our apartment, which doubled as our meetinghouse on
Sunday, while listening to Frère Le Rat, the branch president, practice hymns
on the piano before work because he was tired of always using recorded accompaniment
for sacrament meeting.
A couple months
later, on a trip to Brussels for humanitarian work, I was standing in the
spectacular Grande Place holding a cone of frites in my trembling hand complete
with a smaller cone of mayonnaise for dipping. I had eaten French fries in
Paris a couple of times before switching permanently to salad as a side
because, while the French advertise these fries as “frites,” they are as close to
real frites as burros are to quarter horses. They both belong to the potato (or
equine) family, but they are an entirely different species.
Boom!
Suddenly, I was
back on the Grande Place on a P-day Thursday, my companion and I having taken
the train up from Nivelles, where we were assigned, to Brussels for the day. A small
group of American college co-eds on vacation approached us.
“Are you Mormon
Missionaries?” the boldest one inquired.
“Yes, we are.”
“Do you speak
Flemish or French?”
“French,” we
assured them proudly, obviously being a little insulted by having been mistaken
for those nerdy Flamands.
“Great,” she continued.
“We met some Flemish missionaries earlier and asked them what we could do for
fun in Brussels. They said that they had no idea, but that if we could find
some French-speaking missionaries, they would surely know.”
And we did. Of
course we did.
You can’t get
more Proustian than that.
Beautiful and delightful blog entry, Phil! We look forward to seeing you and Delys at some point in the not distant future.
ReplyDeleteWe look forward to seeing our friends and family soon!
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ReplyDeleteYou saved the best for last! But I can't believe that you had never tasted a madeleine until a couple of years ago.
ReplyDeleteRe A&W root beer and childhood memories: Preston Bell, who lived next door and was the father of my best childhood friend, was an A&W devotee. Many were the times when he and Frances and my parents would stay late after a ward activity (often a "dime-a-dip" dinner) to help clean up while the Bell and Tubbs kids either half-heartedly helped clean up or just ran around outside. (This was known in both our households as "staying until the last dog is hung.") We didn't mind staying, though, because as we were leaving the premises, Preston would invariably say, "Let's go cut the dust out of our throats." This was a signal that the vehicle he was driving would be stopping at A&W before going home. Our vehicle usually followed.
As the Bells and the Tubbses were leaving a ward activity one night when Wendy and I were in our early teens and her brother Ricky was about six or seven, Ricky said, "Hey, Dad, let's go cut our throats!" He has never lived that down--and the memory of those nighttime excursions always resurfaces any time I pass an A&W stand or sip a root beer float.
Phil says that he knows you went to the same A&W and you probably know the same car hop he is talking about. He loves A&W to this day. He even has A&W glasses that can be "frosted" in the freezer. Thanks for the memories of your family, and thanks for reading the blog.
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