In childhood, we used to eat unblessed hosts by the fistful, not distinguishing much between them and my mother’s Health Crisps. They came in sturdy plastic buckets that you could wedge between your legs, and the white discs on white discs gave the look of riches. They tasted like the second dimension, and vaguely like the black leather of my father’s car seats. There was a cross on each that you could feel with your tongue. Ten seconds, and it would melt into nothing—no calories even, just a moment of texture.
