New Year’s Diet
There is a delicious frisson of Catholic-style guilt in that classic New Year's resolution to eat better: I'm still working through the Christmas candy. I've made it to the Giant Bar.
The Giant Bar is not actually as intimidating as one might suppose, given that the yellow wrapper was designed to evoke some dim genetic fear of tigers. You don't eat the milk chocolate with almonds, the milk chocolate with almonds eats you! Symbolically, of course - what is actually supposed to happen is that you are consumed by gluttony, gobble the whole thing down at once without even pausing for a drink of milk, and expire in glee.
Which is why I'm grateful to the Transportation Security Authority at the Quad Cities regional airport. They smashed the Giant Bar into tiny and completely non-threatening portions. Hoorah!
It’s not “eating badly”, it’s “cocoa therapy”, and if the last post is anything to go by, it’s exactly what a doctor would prescribe, and I should know.
In Lithuania, incidentally, the few places that sell hot chocolate (my mother is forbidden caffeine and citrus, so you can imagine) serve it as a very small cup (espresso size) full of melted chocolate, to be consumed with a spoon.
Forbidden citrus?!? I don’t think I could manage, especially now that my orange tree is fruiting.
I’ve decided that my favorite consistency of chocolate is “gooey” - preferably spread on something smushy, like a crepe, but spoons are a close second.