But when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, still, alone, more fragile, but with more vitality, more unsubstantial, more persistent, more faithful, the smell and taste of things remain poised a long time, like souls, ready to remind us, waiting and hoping for their moment, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unfaltering, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection.
– Marcel Proust Remembrance of Things Past
I have a very special new friend in my life, Trudie Strobel, who delights in sweets of all kinds. She has a mighty discerning palate too. “Is that a hint of nutmeg I taste?” she asked about something I had made which literally had what would amount to one precise “hint” of nutmeg. Her delight in all things delicious is innocent like that of a child, almost as if she thanks her lucky stars each time something divine hits her taste buds, and is therefore beholden to appreciate its every essence.
Trudie survived the holocaust, and was a girl when released from the concentration camp. This experience still colors her world, and her fine embroidered art (which is featured in the Los Angeles Museum of the Holocaust): an appreciation for all things beauteous and delicious as if it has only been a short time since such things were removed from her reach.
Trudie’s back yard is a little under-loved because she doesn't get out there much anymore. Gardeners maintain it to a degree, but on my second visit to her home, I went out to peruse what it had to offer – perhaps a gem to bring into the house to brighten up a corner here and there. I discovered a burgeoning rose geranium bush which joyously flourishes, albeit a little obscured by other plants. Rose geranium grows like a weed in Southern California, so it can remain underappreciated, its scent and gifts completely missed by those dismissing it as an intruder, and almost as if it understands its reputation, it can take cover behind other plants.
“If they know me, they love me, and they will find me if they want me,” the rose geranium seems to say.
I gathered up several bouquets with some miracle camellias and plopped them into vases all over Trudie's house. I rubbed the leaves near her nose to let her smell the rosier-than-roses scent. Then I told her we could make tea with it. She was disbelieving but the next time I visited I made this yummy recipe for Rose Geranium Tea. When we sat down to have the tea, Trudie and our mutual friend, Jody, still not quite enrolled in a potential group suicide, braced themselves as I took several sips in a row, faked my death a couple times, and then finished off the cup with one final death scene. We all had a good laugh as I recounted how their faces looked as I drank the tea. "Could we even save her in the event it actually is poisonous?" their eyes seemed to say.
And then....they loved it!
The following week, Trudie gave me a clipping from the LA Times with this Rose Geranium Madeleine Recipe.
“More! More!” is what I heard, so of course, I made them for our next visit. The experience of eating them starts out innocently enough, a delicate spongy cake melting in your mouth. Then your taste buds are transported to the middle of a vast garden of fragrant roses, the faint breath of a single rose released into each bite.
It is as sensuous an experience to bake these little cakes as it is to eat them. The infusion of that rose breath is the most fun. You must massage the geranium leaves into the sugar with your fingers until they start to fall apart. Soon you are nearly intoxicated with the rose aroma, and the leaves are left as soft as lamb’s ears. Then, just as soon as you finish the sugar prep you move, rose punch drunk, to the simmering of the rest of the geranium leaves in the butter. Then you throw a simple flour mixture into all your rosy infusions and bake!
I have another dear friend who adores rose-scented delights too, so I have had the great fortune of making these madeleines three times in the past three weeks. The last time I made them I decided to kick the recipe up one more notch and found a recipe for a rose-infused lemon glaze. It’s super easy: one cup of sifted confectioner's sugar, about a teaspoon of rose water (taste with 1 teaspoon added, and see if you want more), plus lemon juice (about 1/2 of a large lemon or one small lemon) -- enough to just make it the right glazing texture. Again, taste it to see if the rose-lemon balance is perfect for you. You don't want the madeleine rosiness to be annulled. I glazed only one side for the first batch I made and then both sides on the second. You will have to achieve the perfect rosy balance for your own taste buds. Once glazed, you place them on a rack and pop them in a very hot oven for just a couple minutes until the glaze beads a little. Cool and serve with the rose geranium tea — hot or iced!
I love that Trudie brought this recipe to me, as many of our conversations are filled with her vivid memories, taking me back to my high school and college readings of Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past. One of the first stories Trudie told me was of the day they were freed from the concentration camp. As she and her mother walked out of the concentration camp (a miracle unto itself), she saw marguerites (little daisies) growing in a large dry field. This gave her a boost of energy, and she ran to collect a bouquet which she then gave to her mother: a celebration of their freedom. From Trudie’s story telling I could imagine the sun, the smell of the dry earth that the marguerites spited.
Being introduced to madeleines first by Proust, I assumed they would be complicated to make, given their profound and magical effects on him. Now I know — and you can now know — that they are far from complicated to make, but I am delighted to say that they have brought me much magic each time I have made them. New friendships, new delicacies, and the magic of one heart touching another with memories of things long past, and the presence of new memories being born.