Proust and food triggers
I was eating a hard-boiled egg and had this thought: Proust was right—what a strange world we live in full of memories and all kinds of people. Meaning: we just had a very divided election, with winners and losers and stark lines drawn. While eating a hard-boiled egg I remembered riding my bike through Alabama. A friend and I were riding the Natchez Trace which winded through Tennessee, Alabama, and Mississippi. As has been my MO I crave protein on these rigorous rides. We’d stop at small general stores in small towns along the way. Often the food choices were random and scant. At one such place there was a gallon jar on the counter with pickled eggs. Yes, please!! We continued down the road with the eggs in our packs and for miles I could not stop thinking about them. At our designated break I dug them out and relished my egg. That sweet and sour pickle taste and creamy yolk middle. We ate them on salty saltines and washed them down with Gatorade. Since then I’ve ridden man...
