Column: Chocolate!

My Life in Chocolate

By Kathryn Dawson

I’m devoting this column to chocolate, even though it will inevitably be posted beside Gwen’s piece that laments the popularity of candy. It seems appropriate since I’m currently in Switzerland, and chocolate is more interesting than my difficulties with German or the chamois (which are funnily colored Swiss goats, only more fun to say). During the brief intervals when I’m not stuffing my face with chocolate, the people surrounding me are inhaling chocolate that must contain some weird European drug. And I know that back at NSA, everyone’s still diving for those chocolate chip pancakes.

 

Rows of truffles in a Swiss cafe

            Unlike most kids, my fascination with chocolate was minimally related to Halloween overdoses or cravings. Rather, it was centered on “mommy’s box.” Since I can remember, my mother has always had a small box of Evelyn’s truffles below the drink shelf in the fridge. They were expressly forbidden, therefore especially exciting to a 6-year-old Kathryn. Nonetheless, 6-year-old Kathryn did not have the attention span required to stay focused for a prolonged time, even on forbidden chocolates, and Legos and fort building soon took precedence.

 The  yellow box

I reached the most pathetic point in my life soon after, when my obsession with chocolate returned with a vengeance. Somehow, I had gotten over being transfixed by “mommy’s box,” until one fateful Valentine’s Day when my dad gave a bright yellow box of chocolates to my mom. With the relentlessness that only a sugar-driven 8-year-old could have, I begged my mother for a chocolate after every dinner. Perhaps my mother wasn’t particularly fond of those chocolates (how could that be? they smelled delicious and were in a yellow flowery box), she lacked the energy to refuse my obnoxious persistence, or my logical appeals (I did have more than five servings of veggies!) finally paid off. No matter, 8-year-old Kathryn finally got to taste a truffle. Which brings me to the pathetic point in this story, after my mother eventually finished that box of chocolates. Unbeknownst to her, I crept into the basement, slid the empty box into a sweatshirt, and stashed it in the mini-attic in my room. Every once in a while, 8-year-old Kathryn would sneak up the ladder and just sniff the open box. I don’t remember when I stopped needing those hits of chocolate fumes, maybe when I got to eat actual chocolate, but the box stayed in my room until a year ago. 

In the past few years, I’ve channeled my love of chocolate through making truffles. I realized that they make relatively cheap and well-received Christmas presents, plus they’re fun and surprisingly simple to make. All you need is chocolate chips, milk, butter, and whatever is laying around your kitchen that goes with chocolate (anything). My favorite filling is chunky peanut butter with a little confectioners sugar to thicken it. The most liked ones are usually peanut, almond, truffle, white chocolate/coconut, and ginger (actually, that’s just my grandma’s favorite).

Filling baking sheets with truffles for Christmas

Admittedly, while making dozens of Christmas truffles two years ago, I had to find my old dorky retainer (does anyone actually listen to the dentist and wear those?) and wear it around the kitchen so I wouldn’t eat any of the chocolates. Clearly, 15-year-old Kathryn had as little impulse control as 8 year-old Kathryn, but at least has the foresight to limit herself.

Here in Switzerland, I have stayed true to form and had minimal self-control, mostly derived from the potential ease of bankruptcy-by-chocolate and from distractions, like skiing (making skiing the 17-year-old equivalent of tent building).