Today in class we discussed briefly the frequent and powerful use of memory in connection to foods and their aromas (aromae?). Of course, I mentioned the research (which I sadly cannot cite) that suggests that the proximity of olfactory bulb to the hippocampus facilitates a very strong connection between odors and the long term memories we associate with them.

Of course this makes perfect evolutionary sense, no? Most other animals use scent as a powerful communication and early warning tool, communicating fear, desire, and danger all at once. The fact that men often find the scent of pumpkin pie arousing is a testiment to the long-lasting and primal psychological functions that revolve around the olfactory.

But that doesn't explain why these memories make such compelling writing. Sure, madeleines made Proust remember his childhjood, but why is Proust's memory so evocative without the cookies to super-charge them?

Perhaps, then, this phenomenon works the other way--perhaps the most evocative (and identifiable) memories similarly evoke the sensation of the aromas and flavors themselves. While I don't taste brownies when I read about them in Lisa Yockelsohn's "Brownies: a Memoir," I sure do salivate, which is the Pavlovian next-best-thing.

Heck, I don't even have memories of my mother making Oaxuacan Black Mole like Laura Esquivel's mother does, but when I read her essay of that name, I find the evocations of the warm kitchen, the warm spice of the mole in the back of her throat, all far more compelling than the rest of the essay, precisely because I have those kind of warm-kitchen memories from my childhood.

So this is another compelling component of food writing: its ability to tap into powerful memories and experiences through the olfactory mainline gives its authors--without the use of the yet-to-be-developed smell-o-pen--an uncanny pathos.