Parenthood is replete with madeleines. Not just in the cake form – when I was struggling to breastfeed and trying to up my milk supply, I bought bags and bags of them, dipped in chocolate – but the famous Proustian kind. These small encounters with objects or sounds or smells act as nostalgic triggers, with the ability to catapult you back to moments in your childhood that you had long forgotten with a surprising emotional force.
It’s perhaps less romantic when you discover that Proust initially wanted to use toast for his metaphor. Although, actually, I’ve always found toast to be hugely evocative. The sight of a schoolboy on a September morning cradling a slice in a sheet of kitchen roll reminded me recently of how my mother – along with, I suspect, mothers everywhere – used to thrust toast into my hands as I rushed out of the door, late for the bus.
