“The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it… but ….as soon as I had recognized the taste of the piece of madeleine soaked in her decoction of lime-blossom which my aunt used to give me …. immediately the old grey house upon the street, where her room was, rose up like a stage set…”
                    - Marcel Proust, Remembrance of Things Past*

I had a madeleine experience of my own the other day:  while eating a piece of peach pie,** I was carried back to the summer afternoons of my childhood, when my mother magically transformed farmers’ market peaches into a mouth-watering slice of heaven. 

Let me provide some non-literary context. 

My mother’s family are major pie snobs.  My grandfather baked pie.  My mother bakes pie.  I do a fair job at baking pie, though I’m not yet up to the family snuff.

My mother is a pie purist.  She bakes her pies from scratch, with fresh ingredients.  She doesn’t have a wide repertoire; it’s mostly apple, cherry, and peach, with the occasional blueberry or blackberry thrown in to shake things up a little.

Mom will not stand for pie shenanigans.  I once told her that I’d made pie with a store-bought crust and was met by a long silence over the phone line.  Eventually she sighed deeply, and with no irony or humor in her voice, muttered, “I don’t know where I went wrong with you kids.” 

Don’t get me wrong: Mom’s pies are damn good.  I actually toyed with the idea of having my mom bake pies for my wedding instead of having a traditional cake.  She was willing to do it, but it wouldn’t have scaled well for feeding 130 people.

Mom’s pies represent the extreme end of her culinary continuum.  She’s a great cook, but she relaxes her rules in other areas.  Store-bought cookies and pasta sauce are fine.  In cases, she’s even a bit too lenient; I still haven’t quite forgiven her for feeding us canned salmon during Lent. I was 25 years old before I discovered that fresh salmon was actually palatable, rather than merely a dry-yet-oily fishy punishment for Catholic children.  Perhaps she thought that the canned salmon would help us relate better to Christ’s suffering.

Now that I’m making meals for my own family, I respect my mother’s balanced outlook about preparing food, including pie — the jewel in her crown.  Don’t sweat the small stuff, but some things are worth extra time and effort.  Show your love by giving your best.

It’s amazing how seemingly small acts of love can reverberate across time and space.  Who knows what will remind your kids of you someday; the smell of your chapstick? hearing your favorite song?  the feel of clean cotton sheets?  Sometimes it’s in these pedestrian details that we feel most connected.

Last week’s peach pie brought up vivid flashes of home and youth and summer and warmth and family.  Most of all, it reminded me of my mom.  

Just like Proust, my madeleine story involves good food, love, and memories. 

Thank God our family tradition doesn’t involve bikini waxes.

 *Forgive me for trotting out my normally useless French literature degree.
** The pie was from Pie Gourmet in Vienna. It’s hands-down the best pie I’ve tasted in the D.C. area.