Chocolate Lovers Day

Come to find out, yesterday was National Chocolate Day. How I, a chocolate lover of the highest order, missed this one, I don't know.

Of course, since I consume a bit of chocolate something-or-other pretty much every day, I managed to celebrate it, if only by accident, with a couple of Hershey's Kisses. (And while on the subject of candy: yesterday I was in CVS and saw bags of candy corn on sale. Candy corn. In July. October, of course. Even September is fine. Inhaling bit of candy corn in the run up to Halloween is completely reasonable. But July?)

Back to chocolate: I am not, of course, alone - or even in the minority - by being a lover of chocolate. Somewhere, the number sticks in my mind that 9 out of 10 people are also chocolate fans. But I'm guessing that, when it comes to chocolate, I'm a one percenter.

I don't remember a time when I didn't love chocolate.

My family took frequent car rides, especially on nice summer evenings. When we went out for a spin, we usually stopped for ice cream.

Sometimes, it was at Dairy Delight, the Worcester-in-the-50's version of DQ, and the soft serve (no way is that anywhere near the equivalent of ice cream; plus served on a heinous waffle cone: sugar cones only, please) was made palatable by the addition of chocolate coating. I especially loved it when a little shard broke off. Yummy!

But mostly we stopped for real ice cream at the Cherry Bowl or Verna's. 

My favorite flavor as a child was, of course, chocolate. 

There were fewer flavors then to begin with: vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, chocolate chip, swirls/ripples (chocolate, fudge, strawberry), peach (in summer), maple walnut, pistachio, black raspberry. The sherbets. Just the basics. Nothing like the dazzling array of flavors that ice cream stands offer now. (Do I want coffee Oreo? Maine Black Bear? Sea salt caramel?)

So mostly I went with chocolate. Unless it was blazing hot and my father didn't feel like hanging around the ice cream stand to eat our cones. If we had to get in a sweltering (non-AC'd) car with a dripping cone, chocolate was verboten, as it would drip on and stain the cloth seats of whatever two-tone Ford Fairlane we owned at the time. So I had to settle for chocolate chip. Close, but no cigar. (Not that ice cream has anything to do with the odious cigar.)

Other than on holidays, we seldom had chocolate, or any candy, in the house. Halloween, we had plenty. At Easter there was always some chocolate around. And on Christmas and Thanksgiving, we could usually count on a box of Whitman's Sample or Candy Cupboard showing up. But mostly we were a candy free house.

But my father had a sweet tooth, so we always had scratch-baked desserts around, and plenty of them were chocolate: cakes, brownies, chocolate chip cookies. I still believe firmly that the only legit birthday cake is chocolate. In a pinch, if she didn't have time to bake, my mother would cook up some pudding. It wasn't always chocolate, but chocolate was, of course, the best.

Even with all these sweets around, I still craved candy, preferably chocolate.

One Saturday at the YWCA, I found myself with free time between swimming lessons and arts and crafts. And a quarter in my pocket.

The Y had a candy machine, and I beelined over to it, visiting it five times to buy five different candy bars. One was a Sky Bar; one a York Peppermint Patty. And then there was the absolutely foul-tasting Howard Johnson chocolate bar. Inedible. But not really. Awful as it was, I ate it. 

Home from the Y, I had a stomach ache to end all, and was sick for a day. 

I blame the Y, of course, for allowing the temptation of a candy machine. But what could you expect? The Y was a Protestant organization, and the nuns - of course - warned us about having anything to do with it. My parents allowing us to go there for swimming lessons was considered a bit off, maybe even mortally sinful. (Most of my friends weren't allowed.) So of course they would be tempting nice little Catholic girls to overeat and make themselves sick. For all I know, the proceeds from that candy machine went to fund Protestant missions, where the Protestant missionaries wooed little pagans - potential Catholic converts - into their false religion. Probably wooed them with Ho Jo chocolate bars.

Another time, I over did it on chocolate cake and broke out in hives.

None of this put me off chocolate.

Fast forward, and a day without something chocolate is a day without sunshine.

I always have cookies around. Frozen yogurt in the freezer, with a flavor that almost always has a bit of chocolate in it. I typically have a bag of Hershey's Kisses on hand. Not that they're all that great - they aren't - but a couple of Kisses is a nice little sugar-shot, an afternoon pick-me-up, a treat before bedtime. (Sometimes, I have a bag of Dove dark chocolate around instead.)

Of course, I like really good chocolate as well.

One of the highlights of the lockdown was a surprise gift of Chequessett Chocolate chocolate bars, sent from my sister Kath. Unbelievably interesting, unbelievably good. Wellfleet Sea Salt. Chatham Cranberry. Sconset Brown Butter Sage.

I'm usually not all that big on artisanal, or anything called "craft." But wow, just wow.

And one thing about really excellent chocolate: you don't have to eat that much to get your chocolate high for the day.

But I'm not a chocolate snob.

M&M's, Plain or Peanut, I'm there! Almond Joy, bring it! Reese's, Nestle's Crunch, Heath Bar, Butterfinger. Now you're talking. As long as there's chocolate involved, I'm happy.

Okay, I'm not wild about Three Musketeers. And the worst candy bar - other than that near-fatal Ho Jo one I consumed age eight - was something called a Lunch Bar, a 3-cent candy bar in an era of nickel bars. Sold as far as I could tell only at Carrerra's Market, a neighborhood "spa" that specialized in penny candy. I never actually bought a Lunch Bar - if I had 3-cents, I'd get waxed lips, a Squirrel Nut, and a Mary Jane - but on Halloween, the Carrerras would give out Lunch Bars. To balance things out, a older couple who lived on the corner of Stearns Ave. gave out 10-cent Schrafft chocolate-covered marshmallow witches. 

I will be celebrating National Chocolate Day a day late.

This afternoon, instead of a cup of tea, I'll be making myself a cup of hot chocolate. I'm sure I have to cookie in there that I can wash down with it. And I've been hoarding that last bar of Chequessett. Maybe I'll put a square on my pillow tonight...