In search of lost footbaggery, part 1: the footpastry

She sent out for one of those short, plump little cakes called
'petites madeleines,' which look as though they had been moulded in the
fluted scallop of a pilgrim's shell. And soon, mechanically, weary after a
dull day with the prospect of a depressing morrow, I raised to my lips a
spoonful of the tea in which I had soaked a morsel of the cake. No sooner
had the warm liquid, and the crumbs with it, touched my palate than a
shudder ran through my whole body, and I stopped, intent upon the
extraordinary changes that were taking place. An exquisite pleasure had
invaded my senses, but individual, detached, with no suggestion of its
origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me,
its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory--this new sensation having
had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence;
or rather this essence was not in me, it was myself. I had ceased now to
feel mediocre, accidental, mortal. Whence could it have come to me, this
all-powerful joy? I was conscious that it was connected with the taste of
tea and cake, but that it infinitely transcended those savours, could not,
indeed, be of the same nature as theirs. Whence did it come? What did it
signify? How could I seize upon and define it?

There is a reason that Proust has aroused such passion among admirers and detractors. Among the most powerful symbols of Recherche du Temps Perdu is the petite madeleine. Interestingly, Proust chose to transfer the power of the action of footbag to the one of our most primordial objects of desire.
I suspected the doughnut, cruller, or frycake will serve just as honorably.

Footpastry 1:
Origin: my fryer
flavor: saffron glaze

Characteristics: Friendly, light on the foot (puffed with nitrogen bubbles, I believe), soft, moist, childlike, but readily defensive of its virtue. A gentle brush can provoke the faint hint of a live quiver.

After I finished bagging, I left the nut on my windowsill with a few hours of direct autumn sunlight and the occasional breeze.

Day 3, it was a more stalwart pastry, ready to weather the rigors of a dedicated sportsman.
It lent itself to rare & complex moves including the half-nixon and the alger kiss.



Day 6
kind of scaly, lizard like exterior.
grabs you by both lapels and blows smoke in your face. The kind of bag I would use in a competitive match against terrorists. At the same time, very small and light enough to fit in your pocket. I considered adding more sand for ballast.



Day 10 -

This is where it gets scary. Call it the Dionysius model, the footbag Altamont. Multitudes of people, linked for long periods of time in that kind of particular rhythmic ritual which was probably struck upon empirically many thousands of years ago to connect to the Alpha rhythms of the brain. Enhanced by the mind-shaping rot harvested from cereal crops, It does produce these sorts of exploratory states, searches for utopian models or communities that might survive the aftermath of nuclear war.



bit of a beach-like aftertaste.
Next in this series will be "pirate's booty."