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.