Author's Note/Introduction: I love food. I love to write. Brilliant light bulb moment - I can combine them! So these are just some short (some very short) pieces of food and the emotions they evoke, or the memories they remind me of, or just anything that I feel like putting it together with, really. I will update when I feel inspired. It's drawn from but not solely based on personal experiences. And below, of course, is Proust's famous madeleine quote (google it if you haven't heard of it!).
"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."
- Marcel Proust, Swann's Way
(Of reminiscence, home and pieces of childhood.)
She crumbled the butter and the flour between her fingers, raising her hands so that it fell back into the bowl like little sprinkles of snow. Buttery particles coated her nails as she dipped her hands back in the bowl, again and again, watching the golden yellow cubes morph into tiny flakes, the color of sand that's been baking in the sun.
She thought of her old home.
The familiar creak of the old oak door when it opened, the satiny blue tablecloth that would always be laid out on special occasions, her old desk – covered with incoherent scribbles, hearts and smiley faces. She remembered the sofa crowded with stuffed animals, remnants of a spoilt childhood, with dust gathering on their fur. Next to that, an ivory white piano, etched with gold lettering, elegant in its corner of quiet gravitas.
A stream of cold buttermilk splashed into the sandy contents of the bowl, back in with her hands, more vigorous this time, kneading and squeezing the dough together. A liberal dust of flour settled calmly onto the counter. Precise rounds, stamped out and placed on its exact spot on the baking tray.
She remembered huddled next to the table in the front hallway where the phone was, back when landlines were still used, twisting the phone cord around her fingers in endless hours of gossip. The doorframe, marked with scratches, that she used to climb up to the top, one leg on each side, like a monkey. The Persian rug that never changed in 15 years.
Egg, whisked, with a dash of milk. Brush, dipped. Painting over the dimpled surfaces of the scones like a canvas.
Into the oven.
Out of the oven.
Into the new.
Out of the old.
Golden, warm, buttery. A sharp knife splits one horizontally and she watches the steam rise. Strawberry jam and clotted cream, one on each half, then sandwiched back together into a pink mess.
She took a bite, and chewed away the longing.