A Sweet Tooth for Memories
Science tells us that the emotion of nostalgia reveals, in complex detail, why we gravitate to certain remembrances—although it seems clear that no one set of findings can fully explain nostalgia’s power. It lights up different parts of the brain on an MRI, and typically is described by psychologists as a “bittersweet” phenomenon; it carries, at the least, some measure of both pleasure and pain. If you are like me, someone who is sentimental by nature, perhaps you, too, have developed a sweet tooth for memories that are enlivening; and are mindful about rationing the ones that are not.
One of my favorite locales in which to indulge my sweet tooth with happy reflection is a neighborhood bakery—the old-timey kind. Long ago, I recognized such places as spots where the alchemy nearly always happens. I have patronized them regularly ever since, most often getting my nostalgia fix while running errands. And I’m always on the hunt for a great bakeshop when I’m out on the road, away from home on a professional trip. But, for me, the magic for well-being is not to be found in the ingredients that are swirled into industrial-sized bowls. My “high” comes in response to my surroundings, but is also instinctive. Like bread, it rises from the inside.
With just a whiff of a caramel roll or a fresh strawberry pie, I am whisked through a portal that transports me back to the prototype cake factory of my youth. I feel myself there: where the glass in tall display cases gleams and the clackety-clack of the bread slicer reverberates loudly. From years twelve through seventeen, the bakery provided me with a home away from home. And so now I breathe in the scent and discover once again the emotions that my troubled family did not provide: a sense of belonging; a structure that anchored me.
Mr. Weber’s bakery was the place where I found my roots—where I developed resilience. This stable environment enabled a transformation in me all through my tender teen years, years when I floundered socially, emotionally, academically. Not that I could have recognized it as such, back then. Neither while I was busy scraping crusted buttercream from hardwood floors, nor scrubbing pans in oversized sinks with suds up to my elbows. I didn’t have an inkling that confidence was growing within me when I punched in at the time clock at 4:30 a.m. on a Sunday; all of a sudden, I was steeped in the camaraderie of our “bakery-girl” sorority.
On a day a few weeks ago, as I was enjoying what appeared to be a balmy October afternoon, the wind turned chilly and I wished for a jacket. I’d been sitting on a park bench, my arms spread wide across its back, aware of the nearby buzz of a “socially-distanced” conversation. But when I heard the words “you’re kidding me!” I began to listen with more attention. However, the details that followed involved no kidding at all. Our town’s bakery—beloved for seventy-one years and my most preferred site for engaging in time travel—had shuttered its doors without notice.
The news about The Cake Box resulted in wistfulness for me, an emotion I hadn’t anticipated. As I’ve said, I knew about the research on nostalgia, including the findings that indicate it can serve to counteract feelings of loneliness. Or boredom. Or anxiety. I was aware of studies which demonstrated that such nostalgic emotions had a purpose: they can help us through transitions; and an existential focus on the past may be beneficial for looking back on the meaning of one’s life. A tidbit of information I later discovered in a quick Google search made me slap-happy, though. As someone who never leaves home without a sweater—even on a sweltering summer day—I was delighted to learn that on cold days, or in cold rooms, people use nostalgia, literally, to feel warmer.
Yet, while interesting, nothing that I recalled or reviewed about the science of nostalgia resonated for me as I mused about yearning, loss, and my bakery obsession. But then, several days ago, a recent CNN website interview snagged my attention.
Gregory Crewdson, an acclaimed photographer, described his art as being influenced by our most primary experiences: “early encounters set in motion the rituals we repeat for the rest of our lives […] I’ve said many times that [your] story is defined when you’re coming of age […] The music and the movies and the books you loved. And then you spend the rest of your life circulating the same things.”
Bingo. Wasn’t this the best explanation of why I keep orbiting around what turns out to be one of my most important memories—one that “grew me,” one that helped shape the girl into the woman I eventually became? Isn’t this why I’ve lurked outside bakeries ever since, nostalgically circling the home that proffered a tranquility that my “real” home could not—transforming the scent of doughnuts into a reminiscence that has not grown less precious throughout the years, but more? The Cake Box may have closed, but my memories of it have not.
Best,
