I promised Jack that we would make a pudding from my childhood but now, I regret it. I never had milk-and-honey moments as a child. Cooking with my mother was rare. Quality and quantity, essential growing-up ingredients, were missing. I have a Proust’s madeleine moment but it’s not sweet. To cook blancmange now means to grieve what was not there. I stand still, looking at the stainless steel, the wooden spoon, and white powders. I break my promise to Jack. We put on our coats and head to the new coffee shop in town. I hear they make divine desserts.
Isabelle B.L has published a novel. Her work can be found in Visual Verse, Ample Remains, Kitchen Sink Magazine, and elsewhere.