Last night I made a bulgar salad, loosely following one recipe and improvising as I'm wont to do. It was delicious--like a dressed up tabbuoleh. Bulgar, mint, parsley, lemon zest and juice, olive oil, bulgar, grape tomoatoes, red peppers, scallions, and feta cheese. Yummy!
The only other time I've had bulgar in something other than straight tabbouleh was a delicious bulgar salad with dates, walnuts, and celery that my friends M and B made. They packaged up a neat container for me to take on the Amtrak back from Chicago after my half-marathon. It was delicious, and I have fond memories of swaying trains, sore quads, a tired but exhilerated mind and body all associated with bulgar.
Now, if I was like most literary conscious writers this would be the moment I would casually mention Proust or madelaines or both, depending on how obtuse I'm trying to be. And I suppose by even mentioning it I am doing it, but I would LOVE to put a moritorium on the whole damned Proustian association. It seems everything I read that uses food as a vehicle for memory feels honor bound to throw out the connection, and frankly, it's so last century (or even the century before). Let the food and memory stand on their own and if your readers know Proust, they can make that connection in their own minds.