I had a little Proustian moment today and decided to bake up some Vanilla & Rosewater Madeleines, which I'll share at work tomorrow (Okay, I ate two, but that was just testing and they passed with flying colours). I got the recipe from a recent edition of Donna Hay (Issue 41) and I got the baking tray from Williams Sonoma.

"She sent for one of those squat, plump little cakes called "petites madeleines," which look as though they had been moulded in the fluted valve of a scallop shell. And soon, mechanically, dispirited after a dreary day with the prospect of a depressing morrow, I raised to my lips a spoonful of the tea in which I had soaked a morsel of the cake. No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory - this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me it was me"

From Remembrance of Things Past. Volume 1: Swann's Way: Within a Budding Grove.
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