After you admitted your fear of ketchup, the perverse side of me went to Dépanneur Ultra and bought a family pack of ketchup chips. You have to be raised in this country to desire those lurid furrows of salt, stained deeper than other flavours, so you know where to lick. I am a hummingbird this way, drawn to red crannies you needle your tongue into. That was not meant to be a sexual advance, though you’ll probably read it that way. The perverse side of me is called, “Délphine,” by the way.