Midnight Snack is expanding its menu. In 2026, I’ll be serving more magical short stories and whimsical pieces, alongside the reflections you already know. Think of it as a creative journal: a zine of imagination, stories, and curiosities for the late-night mind. Thank you for reading, always.
Memories, as I’ve learned, are fickle creatures.
A Proustian memory, one wrapped in flavour, is especially not to be trusted.
Let me tell you why.
One sweet memory I return to every so often is set in the cinema of my hometown. I grew up countries away from where I was born. In the summers, when I visited family back home, I spent days watching local films.
The popcorn there was especially delectable; warm, buttery, with an array of flavour toppings. The flavours added the oomph that made this ordinary movie staple a fond image in my mind.
For an eon, I’ve recollected that taste with enamoured craving and complained every time another popcorn fell short. I’ve told stories of driving an hour to the cinema just to sample this toothy snack, no movie required.
And so, when it was time to take my husband to my hometown for the first time, I’d pretty much convinced him that reliving this memory was our first order of business.
And so, we did. We picked a movie at random and arrived early. I bought the biggest tub, soaked the popcorn in chives and cheddar, and settled in to watch Gerard Butler land a plane in the middle of a lightning strike.
Years of anticipation brimmed in that first bite, and as if the world had cruelly ossified over time, the savour let me down. The popcorn was supple; the seasoning, dense. It was nothing like what I remembered. I considered that perhaps the quality had changed over time, but the loud delight of other patrons proved that it was my memory that had edited itself.
Memories do that, apparently.
Or rather, our brain does.
We don’t recall events like a photograph. Our brains rebuild the memory on the spot, using fragments of the original experience plus our current emotions, beliefs, identity, and context.
When details don’t quite fit, the brain smooths them out. It fills gaps. It makes the story coherent.
This rewriting is called reconstruction of memory. Every recall slightly alters the memory itself. We remember the last time we remembered it, not the original event.
So, I wasn’t really fond of the taste of the popcorn, but rather the feeling of lightness it offered. The freedom of summer break. A home away from home. Movie theatres that smelled of coffee and cake. Friends I met once every few years.
I’ve re-authored this memory again and again, each time I thought of it.
In the book, In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust, the taste of a madeleine dipped in tea unlocks a flood of childhood memories.
That’s how the term ‘Proustian memory’ was coined. They’re emotionally vivid and immersive, as if you’re being transported into another world.
I’ve always found that food is a magnet for connection, and I light up when I think of the cuisines I’ve tried and the restaurants I’ve enjoyed. But I now realise that, behind it all, I’ve been unconsciously savouring the experience. Someone’s company, my own perhaps, a refreshing holiday, a charming setting, an unusual conversation, a lovely encounter, laughter till I couldn’t breathe, the start of something, the end of another thing, and more life.
My Proustian memory didn’t preserve the tang of a snack; it preserved a slice of my childhood. Now that I think of it, how could the mind really safeguard a sensation so fleeting as taste?
So yeah, your memories are capricious and inaccurate. We mock the goldfish for its poor memory (entirely inaccurate, by the way), but its our own that embellishes the past. The more you think of them, the more unreliable they get. Isn’t the irony of that poetic?
I think so. While you can long for the past and indulge in saccharine reminiscence, those experiences inevitably fade over time. It’s not bittersweet; it’s evidence of a life lived. Your mind may not remember them well, but your bones do.
Besides, if we were to recall every memory, pleasant or otherwise, with precision,
how do we make space for the present?
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Absolutely love this Smriti!
That last question hit the last nail on the coffin. Memory is a 🤥 fraud. I was instantly reminded of some experiences and how most fell on its face when repeated after years. For instance, over the weekend, I found two bakeries that make a similar toast like that of one bakery which was near my grandma's place. And this is after almost several years of searching for the same taste, many bakeries failed miserably. Even the OG (it's still around like your theatre) which I tasted some time last year didn't live up to my expectations. So the last two I mentioned above were the ones that were closest. Well, there's no moral to this story except that to live in the now and at times, visit the past as a break from the present. Altogether, there are many more things that elevate your experience of the memory you posses. It is a challenge for you to cook up that same recipe when the equation between the constants and variables fluctuate.