Blancmange

I’ve spent the last few days like a normal person who’s never had cancer and doesn’t suffer from fatigue, and who does normal productive things like painting their child’s bedroom. (Kudos to me).  The colour of paint was chosen months ago (Carnation) but on the spur of the moment, I decided we should add a pale trim colour.

Imagine my delight when the selected delicious colour had an equally delectible name.  Blancmange.

Blancmange.  Roll that around your mouth in like a spoonful of dessert in your French-est accent.  Blohn-mohnge.

I have no idea what exactly Blancmange is, except that the literary playmates of my bookish childhood ate it in the nursery at tea-time.  Usually these teas followed a long day of roaming around, unfettered by parental supervision, solving a smashing mystery or having a splendid adventure.  I was enthralled by the names of unfamiliar dishes like spotted dick and roly poly, treacle pudding or the rather more humble bread and milk. (Someone please tell me that’s not stale bread dunked in milk with sugar spooned over it).  But Blancmange was the most exotic sounding of all the storybook desserts.  In my head it looked like a chocolately brown quivering jelly, with a fluffy snow-white garnish.  Distinctly mountainous.  (Maybe Mont Blanc somehow got confused with Blancmange in my mind).

However the Blancmange paint is a very pale pink, so delicate it is nearly white.  So it’s safe to assume that my childhood imaginings do not resemble the actual dessert. 

I suppose I could google it, but I’ve quite enjoyed the invented dish floating around in my head all these years.  The reality could disappoint.  I prefer the imaginary dessert, plump and glossy, flavoured with endless possibility.