Proust’s Paprika
I was offered a chilli plant for my birthday and it reminded me of one my earliest memories. Well, after some debate with myself, ‘we’ kind of agreed it was actually my oldest. It features chillies and my dad. I must have been about three then and of course, I didn’t eat one, but it was very close, as you will see. Nothing unusual I suppose, for someone born in a hot country to have memories featuring chillies (an old, discarded, Mauritian Legend even says that Krampus – some kind of evil Santa- rubs hot chillies on the lips and bums of naughty children). I did wonder then, whether Proust would have written about a chilly instead of a ‘madeleine’ had he had the good fortune of being born in a hotter country! He might have talked about pimiento had he been Senor Proust, or simply paprika if he had been Herr Proust… I remember: it was at an indian wedding. I remember the banana leaves where the food was laid. I sat on dad’s lap. There was a pile of little chillies on