ONE WAY TO GO BACK
Baked Indian Pudding has nothing to do with memory, unless of course, it does, but the first stage is stirring cornmeal and water over a low flame for a long time. Holding a wooden spoon, you stir in circles, ellipses, parabolas, zig-zags, keeping the stuff smooth, not pausing for a minute lest the bottom stick, or god forbid, burn, and something about the slow and constant repetition is like being hypnotized. What do you see when your mind goes off-leash? A red hat? A black comb? A fireplace? A certain face? Do you hear part of a song? Take whatever it is and write about it.
If you are my age, all you’d have to do is open a jar of Noxzema, if you could find one, because Noxzema stopped making the soft slip-slidey cream a long time ago. At least I think it did, because I have’t seen that particular blue jar in ages. Noxzema was a staple for teenagers way back in the day. For me it is still synonymous with summer and sunburn and the beach. If I were to smell it now, I swear I would be transported back to the summer of 1957, and I’d be in the front seat of the old Hudson my boyfriend Dickie Ward used to drive, and we would be parked at the Amagansett Beach at night making out like crazy. And afterward I would be afraid I might be pregnant even though we had done nothing but kiss, because the pleasure was overwhelming, and so new. If I could find an old jar of the stuff, we’d be at it again, even though I’m 84 and Dickie is who knows where.
Smells transport us. Time travel made easy. Maybe hunt down your mother’s favorite perfume, or your father’s aftershave and take a whiff. See what memories rise to the surface. So does taste. Give me baked custard in a little glass ramekin, and I’m in Bigmom’s kitchen in Amagansett. It’s five in the morning, and I’ve crept downstairs after her, loving private time with my grandmother before everyone else wakes up. I sit in the rocker by the window, its sill holding blooming geraniums, watching Bigmom percolate her morning coffee for exactly fourteen minutes, and then give me a very big cup, mostly cream and sugar, and a plate of buttered toast sliced in five thin pieces she called soldiers. I’m maybe twelve. Strange, “soldiers.” I wish I had asked her why.
What do you wish you had asked your grandmother?
Love this. Smells=Memories. Speaking of which you can get that original Noxzema Cream on Amazon for $4.48! I actually bought it awhile ago JUST for that sensory memory!!
Lovely piece, a literary respite to end this week. I love all the food details. I might be able to shed some light on the soldiers. I grew up in the UK where soft boiled eggs were served in an egg cup with the top sliced off alongside a helping of "soldiers" - toast that had been buttered and sliced into about 4-5 strips that we would use to dip into the yolk. It was called egg and soldiers, or dippy egg in our house. Did your grandmother have any ties to British culture perhaps?