|Raspberries: because even I can't listen to myself whine anymore
||[Jun. 18th, 2008|04:31 pm]
Sure, Proust had his madeleines...|
and there's one over-rated cookie, btw, but that's another story.
I've got raspberries. I remembered this, yesterday, when on a whim, that's what I had for lunch -- just a big container of raspberries. Rinsed in Montgomery County poisonwater. (I have not contracted cholera yet, despite three times forgetting and using tap water to brush and rinse my teeth.)
I wasn't paying attention -- which is, of course, the only way a memory sneaks into my head anymore. Like darting minnows, silvery needles of thought, swimdashing just out of my reach, then sneaking up behind me and nibbling on my calves when I least expect it. Me, with my net, trying to remember the damn phone number...
Anyway, distracted and popping a raspberry in my mouth, I was hit by a flood of Germany. Just inundated by scenes, smells, textures and flavors of Germany. Oddly, not a single memory of every picking or eating raspberries in Germany. Oh, sure, they were on tarts and cakes and in the beer...but although I remember picking gooseberries, asparagus, cucumbers, mowing hay, choosing rabbits and doves and chickens...not a single raspberry. Plenty of raspberry memories here in the U.S., if I really think about them: picking them as a child at a friend's house, going to the pickyourown place down the road. Picking the japanese beetles, then the actual raspberries at the house in Durham. But the flavor when tasting them now: instant Germany.
It's odd, since usually tasting something brings me back to a memory where I was actually eating the thing in question. Not here. I guess instead of Proust, I should have used Tom Stoppard in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern....