Proust Schmoust

We all know about Proust’s remembrance of things past. Sure we do. We all SAY we do. Some of us have read at least two pages of the tomeosity that is Proust. Before we fell asleep or went out for beers or bashed our heads against the wall thinking “What the hell? This guy not only is on drugs/needs drugs/ but doesn’t write like anyone on or needing drugs.”

In other words, his writing is death on the waking brain.

But, his image or meme, as it were, lives on. The madeleine. That which evokes childhood memories via a simple taste or smell or poke in the ribs. A friend brought me some madeleines back from Paris last year when she visited. I’ve been in the past and never bothered to search them out. But, I was thrilled to receive the tin of Fauchon madeleines.

Oooh! Mais oui! Les madeleines d’histoire! Oh boy. I get to taste one.

They resemble poorly made Twinkies, drily spongy and just really disappointing. They pretty much are crap. But the tin’s cute, so it sits on my counter along with the seventeen drying avocado pits and sprouting garlic heads. That’s sorta French.

Which brings me to my Proustian moments of late. Today’s Thursday, so last Fridayish as I vroomed up the Jeep to go to work I smelled a “smell.” Not off-putting at the time, just a little taint from the usual clean Jeep smell we usually have. Even if I let crud accumulate, like wrappers or umbrellas or receipts, I’ve been pretty good about removing stuff when I get home. Except for the napkin that had the dried out croissanwich bun bits in the money receptacle. But that wasn’t grody and moldy, so it doesn’t count.

The next few days the smell billowed slowly in its rancidity due to the car sitting overnight or in the parking lot in the sun. Once the AC cranked up the nose assault went away.

Tuesday, two days ago the putridity was so bad, as I buckled myself in and turned the key to drive to work, I was transported to days of yore when the children were toddlers and we routinely dropped and discovered either yoghurt cups or half cows on a stick under the seats, only to pull them out when they’d effervesced to Blobbian measurements, interfering with axles and brakepads and such.

It was a memory that almost brought me to my knees in its simplicity and power–dead food can kill you remotely if you let it go too long.  Sunblock and juiceboxes will NOT cover the universal smell of decaying dairy. The cherubic faces of your babies can only mask the pain so long. Nasalcort is useless.

But, then. Then.

Today. The smell was gone. Completely gone. And I didn’t even remove anything, not that I could find anything under the seats, but, well, still.

I’ve concluded that whatever had entered its bad place on the floor in the Jeep has now joined its brethren in the rotted items’ Dave & Buster’s in the sky, to annoy those people who end up at Dave & Buster’s rotted items restaurant. Because Dave & Buster’s is putrid itself.

It’s all good. The stinky stuff is gone; my memories are intact and Proust still is overrated and unread by 97% of French majors everywhere.