A photograph
stashed away in a shoebox in the house I grew up in contains a photograph of
me, aged 3, absolutely covered in chocolate. And by covered I mean coated; my
whole face smeared with
chocolatey goodness and tiny hands bearing evidence to the origin of the sweet
melted mess. This very picture is a testimony to one of my favourite sayings
'If you get chocolate on your fingers, you're not eating it fast enough!'. Luckily, I learn from my
mistakes.
My entire
childhood is sprinkled with chocolate-flavoured memories. As a child, my father
used to create the most elaborate Easter Egg hunts with trails leading to nooks
in every part of our large farmhouse and the sprawling garden outdoors. Oats
for my little sister and rice for me, we had to work hard to discover the
treasures hidden in potplants, shoes, peanut butter jars, grassy hollows and
even the microwave. I admire my father's creativity and dedication to the
time-consuming task which was done in the wee hours of the morning. Rather
ironic to me now, when I consider my father's lack of patience and self-control
when there is chocolate in the house. I'm sure there's a saying which applies
here... something about an apple and a tree? Anyway, I have him to thank for my
impossibly sweet tooth and to this day, he is still the only person who can
devour a chocolate slab faster than I can say 'sharing is caring'! The lengthy
build-up of the hunt only intensified the craving which led up to that sweet
moment when patience was rewarded and we both sat clad in dew-soaked pajamas,
with piles of jewel-wrapped chocolate orbs on our laps, devouring the candy
with chocolate-induced bliss all over our faces.
Christmas was not
without it's cocoa confections, with mom choosing the easiest (and most
delicious) stocking fillers from the chocolate aisle. My fondest memory,
however, of Christmas and chocolate, is filled with Quality Streets. Each year
we eagerly await the family gift from our most favourite neighbour – a gigantic
box of Quality Streets that don't last more than a day in the antique tin my
mom places them in, rendering the effort completely pointless. After observing
the Quality Street-eating habits of the rest of the family, and taking note
that the orange-centred gems always got left behind, I resolved to force myself
to like them (an evil laugh would be appropriate here as my chocolate genius
knows no bounds!). I'm pretty sure this is the ultimate definition of gluttony,
a deadly sin I am unashamedly guilty of. The bright orange enrobed Quality
Streets were, however, the beginning of my love affair with dark chocolate, for
which I am eternally grateful for, and led to the ultimate epiphany that it was
in fact good for you. Chocolate is a vegetable. It comes from a bean. No
scientists required thank you very much.
Growing up,
Fridays were chocolate days. Standing in the sweetest part of Pick 'n Pay, we'd
be given our weekly pocket money – which was always oddly enough, the exact
amount for a Cadbury's bar, and allowed to choose an entire slab of 'a glass
and a half' for ourselves. Yes, we were perfectly aware that our mom was
awesome. As we got older, and Cadbury's more expensive, I thought my prayers
had been answered when a chocolate factory shop aptly named 'Sweet Dreams'
opened up on the route home from school. Shelves and shelves piled with
chocolate bars rejected by factory standards but welcomed with an open mouth by
me. And yes, when it comes to chocolate, I unashamedly have no standards. At
least not when it comes to looks.
High School
presented its own set of sweet memories. I fondly remember the Tempo's and P.S
bars my first boyfriend bought me on an almost daily basis – each with a little
handwritten note stapled to the wrapper as if professing his undying love to me
should I indeed get fat from said chocolate. My obsession with chocolate ran so
deep that each teenage year was celebrated with it – the best of which was my sweet16th birthday – an apt name indeed. It
consisted of a mass of giggling girls sprawled over the house in pink pajamas
with a midnight chocolate fondue. Through trial and error (and there was lots
of it) I have learnt that my favourite delights to drown in molten chocolate
are my sister's homemade toasted coconut marshmallows, soft Wilson's toffies, tuisnywerheid
koeksisters and Romany Creams.
I've also learnt that half-way in, skewers and dippers should be abandoned and
the fondue rather tackled with a spoon. That is how I roll.
I learned that
although Cadbury had served me well in my youth (or rather I had served its
business well), my palate had grown more sophisticated and so I professed Lindt
the love of my life. And in true teenage style, promptly changed the love of my
life when I discovered artisan boutique chocolates such as Green & Blacks,
Honest and our very own locally made DV Chocolate (Sorry Valhrona and Felchin!)
Don't get me wrong, I'm still guilty of infidelity on occasion. When that purple wrapper catches my
attention while I'm standing in a queue at Spar with a trolleyfull of groceries,
I don't hesitate for a second but rather quickly devour the evidence (and
offending wrapper) in the car ride on the way home (oh the shame!). But my
loyalties still lie with dark 70% plus chocolate. This passion was more deeply
intrenched in me when I first watched a vivacious Juliet enchant the French
towns people and viewers alike with her seductive truffles and oozing rich
Mayan hot chocolate in the beautiful film, Chocolat. Johnny Depp's presence
although only a minor bonus when compared to the extreme close-ups of molten
chocolate and shelves of glossy pralines, cemented the motion picture at the
top of my favourites list and led to my resolve that one day I too would become
a professional chocoholic – I mean chocolatier. I can imagine no career more
awesome than being paid to be surrounded by and tasting chocolate every day.
It's a tough job but someone has to do it! But before I tackle the incredible
suffering that comes with a career in chocolate, I first need to acquaint
myself with this thing they call exercise...
