To Chocolate

Better think of this as a conditional ode. And love shouldn't be conditional.  Though, of course, it usually is. If it were not, I would have stayed married even though my husband found it silly to carry my handkerchief in his jacket pocket when we went out. I did require that. In fact, I thought that not having to carry my own handkerchief when I was dressed up was the best thing about being married. (I may have mentioned that once or twice, which might explain why he did not fight the divorce.)  But this talk is not about my former/late husband and me, it's about chocolate and me, and all the two relationships really share is, well, that "me" part.

Let's get my confession out of the way. Chocolate is getting increasingly expensive. And that doesn't seem to affect my behavior. I satisfy my lust for chocolate regardless of the escalating cost of a decent bar. And they do add up. No modest square  or two of Ghiradelli or Godiva 72% after dinner satisfies my hunger. One square leads to another, and any number of good intentions are forgotten in the pleasure of a thin square of dark chocolate on my tongue. (I did mention 72%, right?)

Let's just say that I am not a person who carries moderation to extremes. All one or two squares satisfy is my asking myself why I cannot resist starting that bar--when I know the answer.  Other relationships cost more, that's why.

And it's true, most of the time chocolate and I have a delicious relationship. Still, there are times I feel a need to be alone. At peace. I figure it's the abbess in me. Anyway, it's my need from time to time not to be involved with chocolate that brings me directly to why I laud chocolate only conditionally. I would praise its dark sensual taste without reservation, praise in rhyme its ability when thin enough to melt on my ready tongue, its glide down my throat--well, not conditionally, if it only didn't call to me in its siren voice every time I walk by the kitchen.

I never said I was ready to relinquish my independence.