Requiem for a Madeleine: A wistful reflection on pastries

About twice a week, I’ll take my lunch and go eat in the lunch room. It’s a mini-vacation to get away from my desk and eat in peace every once in awhile. There are two sections: the kitchen area (where there are sinks, microwaves, refrigerators and vending machines) and the seating area which is a big open room with a TV (usually tuned to CNN). For my lunches, I like sitting at one of the stools in the kitchen area. I’m trying to get away, so the yammering from the TV annoys me. My usual seat has me staring into the snack vending machine.

My eye is drawn like a magnet to the bottom shelf. The pastries. One row of Pop Tarts. One row of Cinnamon Rolls. One of some sort of bear claw type of affair. And something called a Butter Horn. A butter horn. A butter horn. My mind automatically whispers, “ooooo, I bet that’s good.” It’s got an icing that shade of yellowy orange that’s not found in nature. About the size of a saucer. Tempting me. Calling me.

But, I just know. It’s not going to be what I think it’s going to be. Yes, I still cheat occasionally on the processed foods. Some are cheats of principle. Smoked brisket is all kinds of bad for me. But it’s worth it. Some are cheats that have consequences. If I eat the box-mix, sprinkles cupcake, I will be pressing a finger between my eyebrows and saying “ow, ow, ow” in about 20 minutes. Sometimes worth it. Sometimes no. And there are some cheats that are just going to be grave disappointment once I actually have them in my mouth. Like a Silkwood chemical bath for the tongue. Not. Worth. It.

Those are the ones that live in my head as some fantastic taste. Star Crunch. Coca-Cola. Planters peanuts. Cheetos. Mmmmm. But now that I’ve kind of detoxed my tastebuds, 7 months down the line, they don’t live up to the memory any more. Some don’t live up to the memory at all anyway. The Twinkie of my childhood no longer exists. They’ve changed formula so many times that it doesn’t even resemble a 1976 Twinkie in taste or texture. Coke does exist in the same form I had as a kid, if I go find a Mexican Coke. But the one that comes out of your garden variety vending machine is just not as satisfying in that Proustian way.

But that Butter Horn. It looks delicious. Glistening under its plastic wrap. Calling me. But I just can't listen. Experience tells me, that now, like the once-beloved who has strayed, I will never be able to experience them quite the same way again. Fillers and preservatives and emulsifiers and artificial colors. You can’t go back.