In all honesty, I don’t quite understand this concept of chocolate addiction. I get sugar addiction, or you know, enjoying one’s drink and drugs, but chocolate? Meh.
It’s only in the past ten years or so that I’ve enjoyed eating it. I mean, I used to try and steal it when we were kids but that was really because it was the only place we could find anything close to sugary – bitter sweet baker’s chocolate as a sugar treat surely screams desperation and deprivation.
But The Mom’s chocolate stash has been well know, so much so that, when I was head Adult Child In Residence, Crazy D would arrive home for a weekend visit and just casually wander into the family room where I was watching TV to ask after its current location – the chocolate stash that is.
“Cupboard with the baking supplies?” He’d suggest.
“Where have you been? It hasn’t been there since we were twelve.”
“Funny nothing drawer with the plastic bags?”
Again I shook my head. “No. The one next to the oven that has the one good oven mitt and not much else. Look under the oven mitt.”
And he’d happily wander off, happy in the knowledge that The Mom’s chocolate stash was meant to be raided. Personally, I think if she kept it in plain sight we wouldn’t want anything to do with it. The proof? She bought this box of chocolate koalas a couple years back when she was in Australia. They’re still there. Plenty of them. Now, granted, they are extremely cute, but usually I’m the only one with hoarder-like tendencies with chocolate. The others would have eaten them up, were they not in plain sight. I think they’re out there to be admired, and have now sort of become part of the decor so it would seem not too dissimilar to eating the plants or a lampshade if we were to eat them.
Anyhow. Whilst Crazy D took up his slot as Adult Child In Residence, he also decided to get a Costco membership – something I’d been desperate to have for YEARS. Mostly because Other Brother’s parents have one and the stories he tells are pretty fantastic. To me it sounds like, well, almost unimaginable. Of course, Crazy D wasn’t about to let The Mom or I anywhere near that place, but he did take down requests and if he deemed them to be sufficiently practical would purchase them. That year, The Mom’s chocolate stash was never, ever empty.
But recently, her neighbours have been paying her with chocolate to watch their dog whilst they’re away. And L’il Sis’s fiancee has also realised that chocolate is the way to, well, if not The Mom’s heart then certainly her good graces. So she’s got all these little stashes of chocolate that sometimes even she forgets are there.
I’ll be casually rummaging around in the fridge, looking for fun and adventure (trust me, those things are in The Mom’s fridge) and lo and behold, I’ll come upon a small brown paper bag. Immediately I’ll think, Oh, yes! And open it up expecting something like a thousand crickets to pounce upon me or something similarly nightmarishly good, and I’ll find a slab of chocolate that looks very fancy.
I’ll bring this to The Mom’s attention and she’ll pause, scratch her head a wee bit and then, usually, it’ll dawn on her: “Ah! Yes, that’s the stuff from the Distillery District in Toronto your sister brought for me.” She’ll then snatch it away. “No you may not have it.”
“Don’t bloody want it, do I?” I’ll harrumph.
The thing is, I used to not understand this fascination with chocolate at all. I didn’t care for the stuff. Recently I’ve taken more of a shine to it, but I’ve never been one to describe myself as a chocoholic. The Mom thinks this is absurd. Because she thinks that chocolate and shoes and the compulsive need for both are somehow ingrained in women’ s DNA. I’ve long since stopped bothering to argue with her about it. There’s no point. Sometimes though, when I really want to make a point, I bring her a chocolate in a tiny pink box where the chocolate is in the shape of a shoe. She couldn’t be happier.