My sudden “Proust’s madeleine” of today are roasted and slightly salted peanuts. I love them: usually I buy them elsewhere—standard KP Original pack—and roast a handful for L. and myself.

As we were having lunch, I was—for the thousandth time—spontaneously reminded of my talks with Dad: when Mum was already in hospital, he took me for brisk walks around our neighbourhood in Zaporozhye.

We briefly popped up in a small cafe nearby (when I was much younger, we got the most delicious milkshakes there), and he bought for us a tiny paper bag of them—slightly roasted and mildly salted peanuts. And we talked, and talked, and talked—about politics (Perestroika was on the rise, although the results weren’t exactly there yet, and it made Dad skeptical), about literature—I started reading Dostoevsky and adored everything: I devoured one novel after another, and Dad was genuinely curious about my opinions of Arkady Dolgoruky and Versilov from “The Adolescent.”

I was insanely proud that Dad communicated with me on equal terms, without any special allowances for my age (I was 12 at the time): I tried my best to sound as solid and reasonable as I could (I guess, for the most part I sounded like all pretentious teens, but was oblivious to this fact, and thank god for that).

And yes, we ate our peanuts: we cleared the bag completely when coming back, and Babushka shook her head, as we had spoiled our appetite before dinner. We felt a bit guilty, but, to be honest, not so much.