Marzipan Memories or the Scent of Plum Kernel Oil, Essay 15 of #52essays2017

Plum and Rose Eye Serum by Yes Organic.

My best friend Indigo, owner of Yes Organic Boutique in Albuquerque, sells a handcrafted Plum and Rose Eye Serum that makes my mouth water. The first time I smelled it I felt confused. It smells a little of rose but not at all like plums, a sweet scent, familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Then I looked up plum oil and found that plum kernel oil is taken from the soft center of the common European plum (Prunus domestica), and is famous for smelling like marzipan. Prunus is the genus of the so-called stone fruits like nectarines, apricots, cherries, and yes almonds too.

Besides tempting me to drink my beauty product, the marzipan scent of this Plum and Rose Eye Serum takes me back to a strange and somewhat lonely moment in my life when I stayed in a studio apartment in Paris. Back then I was neither blind nor sighted and, damn it all to hell, the iPhone had not yet been invented.

The first summer I spent in Paris was to learn French after my first year of grad school, but being unable to read normal print or see much in the way of street signs or the expressions and hand gestures of French people, I failed. I did a lot of wandering around aimlessly, walking from one end of Paris to the other and somehow finally met a guy who seemed to sort of change things. It felt like it anyway. I had been lost and then I was found. We traveled together to Limousin to visit with family and ate very well. We camped out in the shadow of the Pyrenees and loved and argued quite a bit, but that is all another story.

Prunus domestica on tree.

The following summer I returned to Paris to try again. This was after my French love had come to New York and we realized there was no future together, and my friend set me up in her sister’s place in Belleville. It was the first time I’d ever lived alone, no mother, no boyfriend or friend, no roommates, and it was, as I said, strange and lonely.

Fruit shaped marzipan.In those days I had an only child’s tendency to cheer myself up with food, and a poor child’s greedy appetite. Whenever I had the chance, I guiltily pilfered the food of others. From babysitting gigs to roommates, their food always tempted me, and I would eat without feeling good about it, stealthily and with an attempt at taking a little at a time so that the food would not be missed.

I hadn’t lived in a household of plenty growing up, and for my mom and I eating groceries was a matter of finishing and replenishing, hopefully. We never had extra, not like the rich friends I went to school with who had boxes and boxes of cereal to choose from and freezers stocked with infinite meal possibilities.

So in that little studio up the street from the Canal, in an area of lower class and ethnic Parisians–a few miles and a thousand worlds away from the Champs-Élysées, I tried to work on French grammar using my portable CCTV which blew up letters big enough for me to read–much bigger than any magnifying lens could do and in high contrast so that my peripheral vision could make sense of the letters–a task it was not meant to do, and be repelled into the tiny one-person pantry to snoop. Unable to read labels, I used my fingers and my nose to ferret out points of interest.

It was during one of those gluttonous reconnoiterings that I found the tube of marzipan. From that moment forward, I obsessed over that foil tube. As I, day by day, chipped away at the sticky, mealy, nutty sweet stuff–almost savory with its dark undertones of almond smoke–my understanding of almond flavoring was forever altered. I had certainly tasted it before, but not in its natural state. No. Almond flavored items from America with their synthetic benzaldehyde pushing itself into cakes and cookies on the cheap could not compare to that ambrosial and addictive paste.

That second summer, I did not fall in love, but got better at French. I took language classes at the Sorbonne, learning the language with other foreigners who thought I was quite weird and stupid with my CCTV pulled out of its mysterious black suitcase and plopped onto my desk. The class was too hard for me and I didn’t really know how to study. I did not meet any friends until after I gave a presentation on Derrida and other postmodern theorists that I worked on in my head smoking cigarettes at the Canal. I composed and memorized my little presentation in perfectly acceptable French, and they were impressed.

I believe I spoke of the Siècle des Lumières and quoted Diderot, and when it was over I was invited out on the town for the first time. Not much came of it, but a sense of gratification and relief. The class ended, and friends from America would visit soon.

Paris eclipse.

One of those friends (whom I somehow lost) and I visited Paris Disney and we twirled in a teacup, innocent still. There was an eclipse that summer also, and I saw the strange light filtering onto the upturned faces wearing funny glasses. The light had been so odd, silvery eeriness with the earth and the moon and the sun aligned, that I took a picture. I can never remember which is which–solar eclipse versus lunar eclipse. I only remember the light and how everything glowed that last summer in Paris.


*This is #15 of #52essays2017. Check out #14 “The Hand That Extends” here*

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