TTo continue on a nautical theme for a moment. I came home today in a bit of a rush as usual, and ravenous as usual, and with not a lot to eat in the house, also as usual. So choosing rapidly between a tub of cottage cheese and a slice of toast with Philadelphia I chose the latter. Spreading the cheese on the slightly burnt toast I was reminded of an early moment in my childhood when my father would butter my bread. Instead of cutting it up into quarters as the womenfolk in my family did, he would take the knife and carve pictures into the butter. I used to love it when he did this. He was not a good artist. He could do a house with a chimney, and a boat with sails, and once I remember he incurred my mother’s wrath by engraving an image of a rather voluptuous lady. I was four maybe and my feminist instincts were underdeveloped at the time- maybe this was the first moment?
Anyway I thought I would reproduce his sailing boat before I actually ate it.
I hope you can make it out.
I am sure Proust never baked a madeleine in his life.