We're sharing some
profiteroles. They're just from the supermarket,
but still pretty special. There are three little
Choux pastry balls,
with creamy custard inside, and the
chocolate sauce has a hint of alcohol
in it. But, and this is the real reason I like them, the chocolate sauce
is slightly imperfect. It is has an almost imperceptible
granularity,
tiny hints of flour. This is pure
Proust. I shut my eyes
and I'm a child again, "helping" my mother baking. I'm tasting cake mixture,
licking the bowl.
We decide to have one and a half profiteroles each and I make some
dumb joke about how she likes to break balls. She starts eating while
I go to make coffee. After
I come back she passes me the tub
and spoon.
There is just one profiterole left.