A Chocolate Tsunami

On Wednesday I went to the dermatologist to have a couple of skin anomalies taken care of. I like my dermatologist; he’s thorough and kind and unfortunately—only for his patients-- very busy. These days, discovering skin surprises is fairly routine for me, but one of them was nasty and I knew it.

Turned out both were nasty. The worst--I won’t describe it; it’s too gross--but when the needle he inserted into the infected area of my finger felt like it had reached my elbow, I was looking at the ceiling and, in a rather panicky voice, saying things, like, “Good Grief! Are you nearly finished?”

“Five more seconds,” he said calmly and began to count down. I count down with him and then I complain, “My seconds are faster than yours!” He laughs and we’re done. The nice nurse applies antiseptic goo and bandages to both the attacked areas and my bloody finger feels like the damn needle is still in it. She asks me to press the gauze to staunch the bleeding while she rips open a large Band Aid. 

I walk toward the elevator reminding myself of how lucky I am that the health issues that I have to deal with in my life, thus far, are only annoyances. Annoyances are low on the health scale, especially at my age, but also, I think, at any age.

Making the left turn out of the Brick Walk onto the Post Road, suddenly I Want Chocolate! The desire washes over me like a tsunami and I argue with it. Don’t be silly.  Nonesense! Just go home.

But I deserve it, the tsunami insists. I deserve a treat. That was truly unpleasant.

And what do you know? As if with a mind of its own, my car dives right into The Pantry parking lot. (For those of you who don’t know, The Pantry is the home of all things delicious, especially the bakery.)

OK. If there is no place to park, it will be a sign and I will drive out and go home.

There are not one, but two, parking places available.

 Once inside, I am in no hurry to decide; I will take my time: luxuriate in the deciding.

Two salty caramels, maybe? I hold the golden caramels wrapped in cellophane twists in my hand briefly and then gently place them back into the open box on the counter. Perhaps something from the glass bakery shelf: a tiny chocolate cup with chocolate mouse inside? A lemon square? No, not lemon. A densely chocolate World Peace cookie?  Hmm. I spy a clear plastic cup of chocolate panecotta with a surface of thick-looking caramel sauce and I stop.  Yes!

 The minute I am back in my car I pick off the tight top and plunge the rounded plastic spoon into the thick, smooth pudding. The caramel and dark chocolate are a perfect combination. Heavenly. Leaning back in the seat, I scoop up another bite and slowly savor it.

Driving home, the treat precariously propped up on the seat beside me—at a red light, I gather up another bite—I know what is coming, what I will do: something I have done for years: a habit deeply formed. I will not eat it all. It’s too rich and definitely not on my food list: a far cry from the flaxseed-laden breakfast cereal and the no-fat milk, the chicken and fish that pretty much constitute my intake. That’s why it’s such a splurge! Therefore, when I have slowly eaten half of it—every bite of which I will absolutely relish--I will pitch it. I will toss out that gorgeous panecotta. Not without regret, I assure you, but into the garbage the remaining half will go.

At home, with the tsunami of desire happily sated, the dark chocolate sweetness of my last bite still on my tongue, I scrape the remaining half of the panecotta into the disposal, running water over it madly so that I can’t change my mind.

There is no way for me to know if this habit of mine is a form of insanity or wisdom. Perhaps both? But there it is. It’s up to you to judge and I hope you will.