Tag Archives: chocolate

Tony Barrera

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I’ve been thinking recently about the aura of my home. Sometimes it feels warm and cozy, and other times as if a hurricane of Bed, Bath & Beyond coupons and running shoes has ravaged it.  There are days when clutter or not, it is just very quiet. I love the stillness when the television is off, the kettle has piped down, sports radio is muted, and we are all settled in our respective spots for the afternoon. The sun streams in through the windowpanes onto the back of the sofa, its rays gently caressing pudgy cat asleep on the radiator. A few feet away, light snoring rises from the ground as the redhead basset dreams of juicy steaks and wide grassy fields.

Así me gusta a mí. That was the name of a fantastic dance song from my youth (also featured in Penélope Cruz’s breakout film “Jamón, Jamón”). And well, that is how I like it – peaceful, low murmurs, gentle gradual movements. Now when the house and its members are actively engaged in the business of living, I am easily ruffled: treadmill spinning, doors opening, hurried footsteps up and down wooden stairs, greedy lapping of water from bowls, shower jets roaring, and so much more.

But the rare occasions when the house and I can carve out our time to just be, are when I am at my best. I like to slip into a satin kimono robe to really get the ambience going. I sit in a grey armchair, taking the time to place its matching ottoman in front of me for my tired legs. A cup of warm cucumber white tea is waiting on one side of me, and a tall glass of lemony water on the other; that is how you erase the memory of the chocolate chocolate chip muffin and three coffees from the morning. I hear the floorboards creak every so often. And not much else.

Now that dance song from my youth was truthfully about drugs. And big electronic dance music parties (before they were called that) in rundown warehouses, or on neglected expanses of beaches, or in open fields at the edges of towns around the world. And all of that me gusta. Mucho. I often feel my truest self when I am surrounded by that loud bass thumping. Minus the drugs of course, heaven forbid.

And so it is the house and I agree that some afternoons are for silent rejoicing, where we remain observant, gleefully setting aside most external stimulants, and just keeping our mouths shut for a few hours.   And other afternoons, heading into early evenings, should throb with a little drum and bass, the pitter patter of animal children demanding dinner, and the clinking sounds of someone fixing a cocktail. Así me gusta a mí. Also.

When the cat is away

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I am wiping the sleep out of my eyes as I froth the first cappuccino of the day.  But harsh fingers do add years to the delicate eye area, so I stop.

I stretch my arms and relish the delicious thoughts of how to occupy the many hours of the day ahead.  When your partner is out of town, suddenly all kinds of possibilities are available.  I can give myself a manicure without offending any delicate nostrils; or read hours of subtitles on screens filled with tortured Danes, without any commentary rising from the sofa; or enjoy bread as the only course for all three meals of the day.

My steaming mug and I head out to the front porch.  Cinnamon and espresso scents coupled with the light marijuana fragrance of the apartment next door set the ambiance.  The coffee tastes even better than usual in my new ceramic cup, another partner-out-of-town impulse buy.  It is curvy and bright, grandiosely floral, and will definitely require pinkie finger lifting if used correctly.

There is an exhibit on 19th century ballerinas I could see, while reminiscing about my excellent moon-walking abilities.  It’s all about having the right shoes.  Or, I could eat grilled cheese at the hip coffee shop with the romantic vine-covered façade.  And gaze longingly at young cherubic faces, wondering if their cheek stain is available online.

I breathe in deeply and realize how relaxed one can feel when wake-up time doesn’t rely on the alarm clock.  It is almost lunchtime, which means I had better start my heavy-duty enjoyment.  Anchovies!  Something I love and everyone else hates – what better time to gorge myself?  Baguette, darkest of the dark chocolate tarts.  And more carbs.  I need to go to the bakery.  All without disgusting anyone else in my home.

Up, up, off the chair.  Stretch arms to the sky; back down to my toes, let head hang.  Now, come back up and feel at peace.  I walk back inside and put the cup in the sink.  It’s a tough choice: wash the mug or change out of pajamas.

I head up the stairs to my room and dive face first onto the bed.  So soft.  Such a pleasing lemon scent.  Staying right here is how this mouse really plays.

The Sky Is Falling

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Incredible.  Apparently, the cacao scarcity prevalent in post-World War II Europe struck again, in this modern new century.   Oh yes it did, Chicken Little, it did. Pandemonium breaks, as feathered and unfeathered chocoholics race to spread the warning.

You see, I attended an affair that is most memorable for its careful conservation of a certain Italian chocolate hazelnut confection.  The event was intended to be an amicable morning gathering over food, also known as breakfast with friends.

I had originally suggested a local diner, frequented by the trendy youth from town and the neighboring rural counties.  Yes, you can be hip and live on a farm – a farm with satellite television.  Anyway, it seemed like a good way to ease into a lazy Sunday morning.  I was quickly vetoed and shamed for suggesting we pay someone to prepare and serve our food.  Especially since true cool kids source breakfast from their composted vegetable gardens, with a side of eggs from paleo diet-raised, gluten-free pet hens. Not to mention, diner caffeine would never compare to the arabica beans obtained from a Somali warlord on a backpacking trip through Kenya, and ground in an antique French grinder unearthed in a small Provençal village market, and carefully smuggled in through customs.

So I caved and agreed to the slightly awkward, but all-American, potluck.  I got assigned bread.  Bread, plain and simple.  Another person got coffee.  Another jam.   And there was a tossup for the milk.  I’m not sure why coffee person couldn’t also be the milkmaid, but I was violently afraid of speaking up.  I also wasn’t going to gripe about the fact that the bakeries were all closed on Sundays.  No, siree.  I was going to be a joiner, and source an average, likely soft baguette, and love every minute of it.

All appeared easy enough.  I just strolled a few blocks with my limp baguette in hand; once inside the kitchen, I leaned against a counter desperate for a gulp of this gold standard of coffees.   Suddenly, the conversation came to a halt.  A jar of Nutella was pulled from the back of a cabinet.  All eyes feasted on it greedily.  This is why breakfast is the most important meal of the day.  Chocolate.  Spread.

And then just like that, high-pitched concern erupted about the dangers of opening a jar – and then having it sit unsealed, accessible, taunting you from the darkness of the bottom left cabinet.

For in the twenty-first century, sticky chocolate was and remains a delicacy.   And an open jar in a house where a woman resides can be a solitary, dangerous game.  You know the film with reckless spoon-in-jar dining by a pajama-clad fair lass and her faithful companion, the mud mask.

“I have an open jar at home,” interjected neighbor Foxy Loxy who had been invited just that morning.  This was Foxy’s opportunity to highlight her very own contribution to this communal repast.  I wondered, was it really necessary when we had a perfectly delicious jar right in front of us?

Yes, children, it apparently was.  Foxy went on her way, and seventeen solid minutes later, she returned.  Consciences were assuaged as rationing triumphed, and potluck egalitarian principles were upheld.

That fateful day changed me forever.  I became compulsively wasteful with my multiple jars of chocolate confectionery.  Jams and marmalades too.

And I have been recently diagnosed with Post Potluck Stress Disorder.  But I am seeking treatment.