Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals

Privileged is the person who can enjoy being alone with nothing but flighty musings to occupy their thoughts.

I may have mentioned recently that I had read something about Proust’s Madeleine that was repeated as a striking coincidence later to my personal seasonal ramblings.

No, don’t be impressed or jaded- I’ve not personally read Proust as there is no way I am scholarly enough to read such works. However, the words stopped me long enough to peruse google for a better idea of why did his Madeleine require a capital M.

Writer, Marcel Proust, who was responsible for some classic French literature (namely In Search Of Lost Time, a novel that was released in 7 volumes of 14 years) wrote (amongst many other pages) an essay that focused on the endearing classic French cake that goes by the name of a Madeleine.

What is a Madeleine?

It is a little ‘gateau’: almost a 3 bite-sized cake made with eggs, flour, sugar and butter. For the most part- additions include pistachio, frangipane, berries, and has a very specific shape (a little bit oblong, a little bit boat shaped, needs to be scallop shaped because then don’t bother calling it a Madeleine). And like anything French, it’s a bit tricky and fussy to make. But it wouldn’t be French otherwise.

So, the narrator in Proust’s first novel wrote about Madeleines from a place of absolute nostalgia. Over time, it has become a theory linked to memory cognisance from a perspective of voluntary and involuntary memories, transporting a mood to free us from a space in time. (or, something to that affect 🤣)

Certainly, the philosophy, the logic, the psychology behind it all is very hard for me to follow, but I get it nonetheless.

I may leave my work tired and in a mood, but let me plug in my earphones, line up a certain album, and I will be transported to a place free of the constraints that bind my heart and soul. Too often I am triggered by a smell, a book, time in my own kitchen that takes me to the very heart of my Mum.

There certainly isn’t just one moment, but every now and then, pieces fall around me like a little puzzle. They slot and nestle together, and I am transported away to somewhere different.

If I was to imagine what was written on those pages, it would involve a deeply sensory journey: picture sunlight flooding a small countryside kitchen while flour is lightly sieved through the golden air, the creamy butter and fresh eggs from some noisy and cantankerous henny -penny’s.

The blush of a grandmere’s cheek in the warmth of the kitchen. Her apron dusted with flour and sprinkling shiny sugar crystals on the wooden table tops.

It would be a true tangible blend of the emotional happiness, adoration and familial love folded into perfect little cakes. For it could be that madeleines were everything that filled a heart with love.

This has sat with me for a few weeks now. Do I have anything like that in my mind? Something that evokes the love and passion that comes from a very happy childhood?

There isn’t one specific thing that comes to mind. Gleaming rich casserole pots that smell like home?

Perhaps.

Enamel milk jugs with a thick layer of cream sitting on the top. A finger tip pushing back the creamy layer to pour into my tea to avoid creamy lumps in my morning drink.

Last week when the sun was actually shining, I was able to watch bees feeding off the lavender on my terrace. I used to be wholly terrified of bees as a kid; having been stung more than once, you can imagine why.

The one occasion of being stung was the one Sunday evening in summer when I must have been 6 years old. I can say this because the occasion was marked by my mom setting up her old camera to take a group portrait of the 5 of us. The photo is a little distorted in my mind, but I was wearing a skirt, and we were sitting on the kitchen steps of our farmhouse verhanda. My hair was short and bowl-like. It was only after a year in school did mom let me start growing my hair, which is why I am say that I was about 6 years old. Andrea was in the photo as a toddler I think. And it was before the extensions were done to the house.

It was while Mom was instructing Dad where to set the camera up with the best viewpoint, and adjusting the timer option to allow us all to be in a photo that I must have stood on a bee. My foot swelled up after that and while I was never allergic to a bee sting, I was forever after terribly weary of bees.

Not so much the bumblebees that would hover listlessly in the wisteria window frame of the old house.

When we were kids growing up in Boston, we had the most incredible holiday activity club. The Boston community moms were always busy organising us kids to avoid holiday boredom. There was the train ride to Deepdale , the youth show (for a while) the Christmas Party, hockey club, gymkhana club, tennis tournaments (when we were old enough), Church camps, Conservancy camps and hikes, but I think everyone’s favourite – hands down- was the Children’s Show in the Toussaint Holiday.

Not far off the concept of the British Women’s Institute/AgriculturalShow competitions that the old women (and young moms) would focus their attention to if they were privileged enough to be in the right circles, our little Children’s Show was a competition between different age groups in the community. We would be given a long list of things that we would have to do, different category’s including art, cooking, building, sewing or knitting, writing, floral art (to name a few). Same age kids would compete, and the older the children, the more difficult the challenges and conditions of success would be. We would drop off our submissions early in the morning: set them up on our allocated positions with a nameless tag, because the judging would have to be done in a non-biased manner.

Judging would commence after 10am, behind closed doors, and 50 kids would run riot on the tennis courts and on the playground.

Afterwards, winners would be announced, prizes and trophy’s awarded and we would all go home very much fulfilled and acknowledged. Having done a little Facebook research (thanks Facebook Bostonians) on the event, it may have been a little more stressful competition than I have made out. Our moms would have been relentless in their efforts to ensure our fudge was perfect, that our matchbox collections had been achieved fairly, and not by raiding the toolboxes or sewing boxes. As for the kids stress- back in the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s in rural South Africa- can you imagine a 13 year old boy being forced to be patient while waiting for the sugar to achieve the perfect temperature of 121 degrees before removing it to vigorously stir it to crystallise it?

But why now am I regaling moments of my blissful youth intertwined with Proust and philosophical french literature?

The reasons are multifaceted but the crux of it comes to the jars of RedCurrant Jam I made recently.

We have a Red Currant Bush growing in our garden. It dropped a great harvest of fruit this year- possibly because of the sub-thermal winter we endured. I made two small bottles last year, from the berries, some leftover cherries and a forlorn apple left unattended in my fridge. With the berries looking ripe and ready this year, I set about making my own jam again. My paid sabbatical might be over, but the momentum isn’t.

I had to Google the proportions of fruit to sugar, and in doing so I was transported to my Moms kitchen briefly, where she used to simmer pots of garden strawberries and scoop off the scummy bits that came to the surface.

I have an imagined culinary essay, once again drawing on the differences between the food we we raised on and taught to make in South Africa, and the quite stark differences with the french kitchen: the guidelines, the environmental history of a certain dish, the seeming inability to break down a centuries-old traditional dish for fear of upsetting the forefathers.

I wanted to weave a tale of precocious french chefs almighty in their ivory and brass kitchens, spitting out their Larousse of encyclopaedic knowledge versus the passing down of oral and written recipes from our elders. Our aunties, our mothers, our oumies and the old woman next door whose strawberry jam always took first prize at the show, who would tell you the best jam is not runny, that the fruit to liquid ratio should be x and that the secret to making a jam that sets is to wrap apple cores and peel in a muslin cloth and cook your jam with a bag of natural pectin that you can take out when your jam is ready.

(Oops, did I just regale my secret ingredient?)

Just how different is the arrogant french chef to the proud old lady next door, with her tips and important things to remember when honouring the ingredients this earth has given us?

Everything said and done, nobody really makes their own jam anymore do they? Aside from the poor stigma that comes with a teaspoon of sugar, our available time means we can’t be spending time preparing fruit for jam either. As a result, time revered recipes have come to a crashing end with our grandmothers and all we have is the ‘net. And shops where we can buy jam. At the end of the day, this doesn’t make us any less of a person.

Sliding on though, in this age of hyper-consumerism, would it be such a terrible thing to consider making your own?

That, however, is a debate for another day!

Red Currant, Cherry and Apple Jam.

The best jam is the jam made from seasonally harvested fruit. I think it evokes a sense of pride and real ownership.

I discovered apple core and peel is a fantastic natural source of pectin which helps to set your jam. Wrap the peel and core in muslin and boil it together with the other fruit and sugar. Otherwise, here in France we can buy pectin sugar, or you can buy pectin, although I’m not certain where is the best place for it.

You don’t really want a high proportion of sugar, even though the sugar does add to the setting quality as it reduces and becomes more syrupy. With that in mind, the fruit should be ripe. I suspect some old prize-winning neighbours would suggest the over-ripened fruit that might not be good for eating as is.

I used the following quantities below for my jam. They may differ depending on what your fruit is and it’s quality.

• 1kg washed Red currants, depitted cherries, neatly cubed apple pieces, about the same size as red currants.
• 500g white sugar
• 1 muslin cloth or similar style tea towel with the apple cores and apple peels tied up into it. I used 4 mediums sized apples, a third of the weight of the entire fruit.
• Allow the sugar to dissolve and come to the boil. Cook on a low/medium heat for 2 hours.
• Bottle and seal immediately in sterilised bottles.

On that note, I’ll be bidding you adieu. I hope that you at least enjoyed some of my proustian ramblings, in the event you’re still here (and awake)

We’re off on holiday next week- yay- although I am somewhat perturbed that we haven’t got accommodation in the beach locations up on the FlatLands of the North. Sigh. You know where to find me for updates!

I do send my love and wishes to you as you all go through your stuff. We all have something on the go at the moment. You’re allowed to live yours.

Xx