admin
06-27-2007, 07:20 PM
CONFESSIONS OF A CHOCOHOLIC
. . . I'm lying on the tile floor with a spoon dangling from
my chocolate smeared mouth. With my finger I am able to write
the words "MORE CHOCOLATE!"
. . . in spilled sugar.
Every pan is running over with peanut-butter fudge, raspberry
fudge, Pistachio Swirl Fudge, Rocky Road Fudge . . . and walnut
supreme White Chocolate Fudge. It bubbles on the stove, it
hardens in the refrigerator . . . I struggle to get to my feet,
slipping and sliding in the sweet cream butter and pure vanilla
that never quite made it into the pots . . . In the background,
the television broadcasts astonishing news! Wall Street is Wild!
. . . Hershey is going through the roof! Buy! Buy! . . . Nestle is
not far behind! Under piles of chocolate wrappers, I find my
phone. It's drizzled with caramel . . . in my state of sugar
ecstasy , accidentally, I speed dial 911.
My life is rushing before my glaring eyes . . . as I listen to
that heavenly sound . . . blub! Blubblub! Blub! . . . unmistakably
bubbling fudge (there's no sound in the world quite like it.)
I happened to catch a glimpse of myself in the smeared
microwave oven door -- powdered sugar in my hair. How could
I have sunk so low? Don't I have any self-control? NO! My
stretch pants have reached their limit. I stagger to the treadmill,
sweep away the cobwebs - it squeaks as it starts up . . . okay,
I'll walk it off! But I find it hard to stay on the treadmill, my
hands still covered in butter from rolling those fudge snowballs.
Quickly, my mind races as I calculate . . . how long do I have to
walk on this treadmill to burn up 1,500 Calories? 2 days!
At fifty-two miles per hour!
I can do it!
When the paramedics arrived, they found me -- wearing a
chocolate stained T-shirt emblazoned with the words --
CHOCOLATE RULES! -- perched on the kitchen island, surrounded
by 12 pots of assorted fudge. Calls of, "Give it up, lady! This
little escapade is over!" carried no weight (as I had it all)...
I refused to budge.
"It's mine!" I called. "All of it!"
In desperation, they brought in an experienced police negotiator
-- no use. He might be able to talk a desperate woman down off
a ledge -- but away from her fudge -- I think not! Then, they
brought in my devastated husband, who pleaded with me . . .
"Drop it, honey! Put down the spoon! Look at yourself!"
Ashamed? Not really. But, I could see where there might be
a 'tiny' problem. Taking one last lick of the large wooden
spoon, I savored the taste of the 'demon chocolate' as I gave
up the pots -- one by one. It's not a pretty story, I know. But
perhaps it will help someone out there to see where this
obsession can lead. . . . Oh, I've gotta run -- they're coming
to take me for a little walk today.
. . . I'm lying on the tile floor with a spoon dangling from
my chocolate smeared mouth. With my finger I am able to write
the words "MORE CHOCOLATE!"
. . . in spilled sugar.
Every pan is running over with peanut-butter fudge, raspberry
fudge, Pistachio Swirl Fudge, Rocky Road Fudge . . . and walnut
supreme White Chocolate Fudge. It bubbles on the stove, it
hardens in the refrigerator . . . I struggle to get to my feet,
slipping and sliding in the sweet cream butter and pure vanilla
that never quite made it into the pots . . . In the background,
the television broadcasts astonishing news! Wall Street is Wild!
. . . Hershey is going through the roof! Buy! Buy! . . . Nestle is
not far behind! Under piles of chocolate wrappers, I find my
phone. It's drizzled with caramel . . . in my state of sugar
ecstasy , accidentally, I speed dial 911.
My life is rushing before my glaring eyes . . . as I listen to
that heavenly sound . . . blub! Blubblub! Blub! . . . unmistakably
bubbling fudge (there's no sound in the world quite like it.)
I happened to catch a glimpse of myself in the smeared
microwave oven door -- powdered sugar in my hair. How could
I have sunk so low? Don't I have any self-control? NO! My
stretch pants have reached their limit. I stagger to the treadmill,
sweep away the cobwebs - it squeaks as it starts up . . . okay,
I'll walk it off! But I find it hard to stay on the treadmill, my
hands still covered in butter from rolling those fudge snowballs.
Quickly, my mind races as I calculate . . . how long do I have to
walk on this treadmill to burn up 1,500 Calories? 2 days!
At fifty-two miles per hour!
I can do it!
When the paramedics arrived, they found me -- wearing a
chocolate stained T-shirt emblazoned with the words --
CHOCOLATE RULES! -- perched on the kitchen island, surrounded
by 12 pots of assorted fudge. Calls of, "Give it up, lady! This
little escapade is over!" carried no weight (as I had it all)...
I refused to budge.
"It's mine!" I called. "All of it!"
In desperation, they brought in an experienced police negotiator
-- no use. He might be able to talk a desperate woman down off
a ledge -- but away from her fudge -- I think not! Then, they
brought in my devastated husband, who pleaded with me . . .
"Drop it, honey! Put down the spoon! Look at yourself!"
Ashamed? Not really. But, I could see where there might be
a 'tiny' problem. Taking one last lick of the large wooden
spoon, I savored the taste of the 'demon chocolate' as I gave
up the pots -- one by one. It's not a pretty story, I know. But
perhaps it will help someone out there to see where this
obsession can lead. . . . Oh, I've gotta run -- they're coming
to take me for a little walk today.