Choccies

I am usually a discerning chocolate connoisseur (only Callebaut passes these lips), but at Christmas time I will down anything remotely resembling that dark brown, luscious delicacy.

I don’t know what it is. Maybe it is the overwhelming quantity and/or its constant presence. I can’t resist sampling any and all chocolate. My tastes range anywhere from chewy, nutty Turtles (a childhood favorite), to those dark chocolate and minty After Eight squares which always added a “touch of class” to parental holiday cocktail parties of days gone by.

My current favourite is Quality Street imported chocolates and caramels of which I have a giant box on my desk. In the true spirit of the season I refuse to share them. Instead, I have been making myself sick consuming copious handfuls this week before the big day.

Why?

None of the above described are good, or classy, or despite their names “quality” chocolates.

It is probably partly due to gluttony; a small attempt to harken back to my childhood; and a crow-like attraction to shiny packaging. Throw in the stress, and hustle and bustle (ado, flurry, rumpus, commotion) of the season and you have a weak attempt to make it through what has typically never been a very satisfying or emotionally healthy time of year for me.

The good news is I eventually do come to my senses. Part of how I help myself is by selflessly helping others.

It has become my annual tradition to buy my sister’s boyfriend a box of his favorite Laura Secord mints, which, sadly, aren’t available where they live. It is one of the man’s few pleasures in life (that and snowmobiling). These “chocolates” come in a large box, are unnaturally bright green, and seriously waxy in texture.

(Here’s the helping part.)

I always throw in a giant slab of Callebaut chocolate, in the hopes that one day he will sample and come to appreciate the difference.