The French understand something about chocolate that most of us have forgotten: it is not powder in a tin. It is not a packet stirred into water. Real hot chocolate begins with real chocolate, chopped and melted slowly into warm milk until it becomes something that tastes like comfort itself.

I learned this in Paris, sitting at a tiny café table with a cup so rich I could barely finish it. The chocolate was dark and slightly bitter, the milk fresh and whole, and on top floated a cloud of cream that had been whipped minutes before. No marshmallows. No sprinkles. Just three ingredients treated with respect.

This is not difficult to make. It takes ten minutes and a small saucepan. What it requires is intention. Buy chocolate worth eating on its own. Find milk from a dairy that cares. Whip your own cream, because cream from a canister tastes like chemicals and disappointment. Your choices shape what ends up in your cup.