The Proust Effect (Mac and Cheese)
In Marcel Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past (the longest novel ever written) the protagonist’s adult encounter with a platter of madeleines triggers powerful memories of the same petite lemony sponge cakes of his youth.
The Proust Effect, as it’s now known, refers to the human brain’s capacity to involuntarily evoke memories of past experience—even those that have long been blocked.
For Proust, that small platter brought him back to the bedroom of his aunt Leonie, where she would hand him crumbs of madeleines dipped in lime-flower tea. The taste of the spongecakes, the fragrance of the tea: Proust’s associations were decidedly positive. But with food, involuntary memory can go both ways.
Mine takes me back to the Tiny Tot preschool. Normally, I attend the morning session only. But on this crisp fall New England day, I’m inexplicably stuck for lunch. In principle, that might have been okay. But when we sit down to eat, instead of food we’re served curved rubber tubes stuck together under a thick orange goop that smells alarmingly like feet.
It takes only one bite to confirm that macaroni and cheese is not for me.
From there, things only go downhill. After lunch, the teachers are lining us up for an orderly exit to the playground when the sound of a donkey braying pierces the din of high-pitched chatter. Craning my neck, I can see, near the front of the line, Arnie Jarvis bent at the waist, his tiny shoulders heaving until an unholy-intake of breath is followed by a dramatic splash.
“Quickly, children! This way!” a teacher shouts, herding us toward an alternate side door. Going the other way, Arnie howls as he’s guided toward the bathroom. And I pass the spot where he’d been standing, I can’t resist a last look at the lumpy puddle he left behind.
Very quickly, as happens with four-year-olds, this memory was replaced by others. And while I didn’t go out of my way to avoid mac and cheese, neither did I ever choose it. At home, my mother never served it (the reason I didn’t recognize it as food.) In my high school cafeteria and college dining it was easy to bypass for other options. It’s not like anyone ever said, “You’ve got to try the Mac and Cheese!” As a line item on restaurant menus, it didn’t even register. Or more likely, I rarely ate at restaurants that offered it.
It was only three and a half decades later, when I – as a mother – became the self-appointed steward of my son Julian’s developing palate, that the memory bubbled to the surface, causing guilt and a measure of consternation.
In Washington Square Park, I’d sit with other neighborhood moms watching our toddlers parallel play, and chatting about common-ground topics like sleep schedules, bath routines, and the foods our kids would and wouldn’t eat. That’s when I started to hear “Mac and Cheese” – a lot.
I realized these other kids liked it. They were picking up the tubes and feeding themselves. With milk, butter, and cheese, it offered protein and the kind of fat little growing bodies need. Here I was—introducing Julian to pad thai, spiced dal, and bouillabaisse, but selfishly depriving him of an American childhood classic. Why? Enter the Proust effect. Oh, that.
To assuage my guilt, I set about cracking the code on Mac and Cheese, a dish I knew nothing about. At the supermarket, I located the products on shelves I’d never noticed. There I found new brands in well-designed boxes claiming “100% real cheese,” “aged cheddar cheese,” and “organic” pasta shells instead of tubes. With the internet barely nascent at the time, I also thumbed through cookbooks and consulted with with friends who were good cooks.
Of my three valiant attempts at serving Mac and Cheese to Julian, each met failure. For the first two I used premium packaged brands, adding whole milk and extra cheese. Julian barely picked at it gravitating instead to the peas, carrots and “little trees” (broccoli florets) I had served on the side.
For my third try, I went for broke: artisanal corralini pasta, expensive English cheddar, and parmesan, also substituting half-and-half for the milk. “Delicious,” I declared with a forced smile, setting a plastic bowl on the tray of Julian’s highchair.
What happened next was surely an accident: a toddler’s misjudgment of speed and velocity on an objects in space. But the moment I turned my back, I heard the thwack of the bowl and its contents hitting the kitchen the floor.
Peering down, Julian clearly found the whole gravity thing hilarious. I laughed, too. But as I leaned over to clean it up with a damp paper towel, I found it difficult not to gag.
Fast forward thirty years. Happily, my son is an ardent foodie who enjoys cooking with his fiancée in the kitchen of their Upper West Side apartment. Often when we talk, the subject often turns to food. I recently asked if he recalled our Mac and Cheese debacle. He didn’t.
“Just curious,” I asked. “Did you ever eat Mac and Cheese again?”
“Sure,” he responded. “Lots of times.” He must have noticed my surprised expression. “The bad stuff sucks,” he clarified. “But good Mac and Cheese is delicious.”
“When did you start to eat it?” I asked.
“When I got to college,” he said. “Basically, as soon as I left home.”
Lesson learned: even little kids can spot a liar. Between my fake smile and forced “Delicious!” Julian had my number. But in the long run, my number is not his. And to his benefit, this long-repressed memory stays with me—where it may or may not belong. Needless to say, the Mac and Cheese recipe I share is Julian’s, not mine.
Julian’s Mac and cheese
8 oz. cavatappi
4 1/2 T unsalted butter
2/3 cup panko
4 T flour
1 garlic clove, grated
1/2 teaspoon mustard powder
2 cups whole milk, half-and-half, or oat milk – or a mix
1 1/2 cup grated good-quality cheddar cheese
1 cup grated Gruyère cheese
1/4 cup grated parmesan cheese
2 T melted butter
Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper to taste.
- Preheat oven to 350 F.
- Cook pasta, stovetop, to al dente. Drain, rinse briefly and set aside.
- Butter a 2-quart baking dish (1/2 T.)
- In a heavy-bottomed saucepan, melt 4 T of butter over low heat. When the butter is melted, add flour and stir until the mixture is smooth.
- Add dry mustard, salt, and pepper – then garlic and gradually add milk (or half-and-half)—continuing to stir until mixture is thick and uniform, about the consistency of yogurt.
- Stir in the grated cheddar and Gruyère cheese; continue stirring over low heat until the cheeses melt.
- Combine cavatappi with the cheese sauce and spoon the mixture into the prepared baking dish.
- In a small bowl, mix the panko with the melted butter. lightly toss with parmesan cheese – but don’t add the breadcrumbs – yet.
- Bake 10 minutes. Sprinkle with breadcrumbs and bake another 10-15 minutes or until cheese is bubbling and crumbs are golden brown.
Top photo: Bigstock