The taste of pudding transports me into the body of an Eton schoolboy in Victorian England who is on home for the holidays and is likely going to develop some very English vices regarding thin birch sticks by the time I come of age and inherit my father’s business after taking a rather antiquated Grand Tour across Europe with some of my closest schoolmates, one of whom will die tragically after a night of drunken debauchery in Venice and I will continue to write frustrated homoerotic letters to him long after his death that my wife endeavors to destroy to preserve the family honor after I waste away and die from a broken heart after my favorite son dies in the Great War.
I don’t eat a lot of pudding.