From a long distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, still, alone, more fragile, but with more vitality, more unsubstantial, more persistent, more faithful, the smell and taste of things remain poised for a long time, like souls, ready to remind us, waiting and hoping for their moment, amidst the ruins of all the rest; and bear unfaltering in the most impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection.* – Marcel Proust

* All that after a single bite of a madeleine. Imagine what he might’ve written had he liked t-bone steaks?