The touch of the sheet on his fingers was like falling into a blancmange. A memory of Irish moss mixed with almonds and cream, a thought process lurking in his limbic system, older than his years.

Cold and crisp, yet also soft and silken, a forgetting and a remembering at the same time. Curious.

A sense of travelling over continents and time. Without knowing how he knew, he remembered that whitedishes were a special thing served at feasts, or a delicacy for the very rich.

Variation later made by the use of colouring agents: saffron making an autumnal red-gold; herbs for shades of green; sandalwood for russet, an orange so deep you could almost taste it’s juiciness.

“You can’t eat sheets” - he thought, with a smirk, his rational self, returning. Yet they held his attention and unnecessarily, the urge to lie down was becoming overpowering.

But some little something held him back – did it feel wrong? Was it a desire too decadent, too freeing, could it be a step too far?

He pulled a corner of the luxurious snow-like duvet to his cheek, without even realising what he had done. Cushioned. Easy. Ductile. Yielding.

He laid down onto the velvet mass and closed his eyes. It made him think of the skin in the small of her back and how she shuddered when he ran his finger ever so lightly over it.

But you know too, that closing your eyes can be a dangerous pastime.

---

_On ne fait plus que rarement le blanc-manger, et c’est chose regrettable, car c’est l’un des meilleurs entrements qui se puissant server, quand il est bien préparé._

[Blanc-manger is very rarely made nowadays which is to be regretted because when well made it can be one of the best sweets served.]

_Auguste Escoffier, Le guide culinaire; aide-mémoire de cuisines pratique, 1921._