My madeleine

Yesterday I had a midmorning craving for peanut butter and jam on crackers. Protein and carbs aren't things I usually crave-- it's almost always sugar, but I chalked it up to having run 11 miles that morning. I dug up some saltines from the back of the pantry and made myself a few little pbj sandwiches. As I bit into the first one, I was overcome with a craving for peanut butter on a spoon, covered with a few chocolate chips. The peanut butter was already on the counter (along with Isaac) but as I turned back to the pantry to find the half-eaten bag of chocolate, I, like Proust eating the madeleine, was hit by a flood of memories. Proust's madeline inspired three heavy volumes, I'll just bore you with a couple of paragraphs.

Back when I was a sophomore in college, I lived in the Glenwood, which, at the time, deserved its reputation as the scariest apartment complex in Provo. I noticed last time I drove by that it has had a facelift, but I can't imagine that it's all that different on the inside. Anyway, my roommates wanted to live there because it was cheap, and tagged along because I liked them.

Two of my roommates, Les and Lauren, shared food with me. Every Saturday my soon-to-be brother-in-law took me grocery shopping after his piano lesson. We were pretty sure at the time that Eddie was paying him to keep tabs on me, although he claims now that he wasn't. We were poor college students and ate a lot of rice and pasta and peanut butter. Lauren introduced me to the peanut butter on a spoon, covered with chocolate chips. If you get the ratio just right (spoon just less than half-filled, covered with five or six chips) it tastes just like a Reese's peanut butter cup.

Lauren and I had been teenagers in the same ward. We joined the Church the same summer. We dated the same boys in high school. I dragged her along to the geeky computer camp with me. When it was her night to cook, she'd call her Italian dad or her Italian grandma and get fantastic recipes for pasta arrabiata, or penne with tuna sauce or risotto (and this was years before I ever saw it served in fancy restaurants). I have cards with those recipes in my recipe box, but I can't make them like Lauren could.

After one year of living with us, Lauren went to live with other friends. I think it was a dumb boy that drove her away, but that's another story. We keep in touch through Christmas cards. I know where she lives, what she does for a living, and what her kids and dogs are named. We ran into each other once when I was in Utah visiting my in-laws. I miss her. I miss the late nights strategizing how we were going to nab the cutest boys in the stake. The mornings we met over cornbread and hot chocolate in the cougareat. I even miss her endless playing of Phish and Tori Amos.

I never really expected to keep in touch with a lot of the girls I knew in high school. With my college friends it was a little different. Les and I are in almost constant contact. I hear from a few other friends every now and then. But I'm saddest about letting Lauren slip through the cracks.

--originally posted 1/20/06