Proust knew it, we all know it. Something eaten at a certain place and time can send us straight back to that place and time when tasted years later and far away.
When I was a child, morning and afternoon teas and suppers marked out the day, the table would feature a variety of baking and the greedy among us would sample something from each plate.
Each family member had a speciality. My mother’s was the Belgian biscuit; spicy, sweet, with just the right thickness of biscuit, amount of jam, swirl of icing and sprinkling of pink jelly crystals on top. Not too much, not too little. They bore no resemblance to the behemoths available in cafes now – those nasty saucer sized thick, dry things.
There were so many others; my grandmother’s specialty was the tan square, my aunt’s the pineapple sponge, my mother-in-law’s shortbread made with icing sugar.
It is a good idea to write them down – I don’t have one single recipe written down. The women in my family relied on their memories. I had good intentions of collecting these recipes but somehow never got around to it and now it’s too late.