I’m at a chocolate workshop. Heated vats of glossy sweetness entice me. Bittersweet memories distract me, interrupting the instructor and invading my mind. I let them consume my thoughts...
My dad used to reward good behavior with points: 3 for sweeping, 2 for praying, 4 for clearing the table. If I fought or forgot to do a chore, I could lose points. That didn’t stop me from trying to collect more. I had my eyes on the prizes. My dad offered only a few items worth saving up for: a trip to the arcade for 100 or 150 points, an ice cream cake for too many points to count, and a few smaller prizes I don’t remember anymore.
The prize always in reach was chocolate. Someone once donated a few tons of solid, dark chocolate plates to our synagogue. They were bitter and hard; no one ate them. One evening, searching for sweetness, I think it was my dad who figured out how to use the chocolate. If he stuck it into the microwave, it would melt into melty goodness that could be eaten with a spoon.
Every 10 points, I'd buy a chunk of chocolate plate. If you've ever melted chocolate in the microwave, you might know that it quickly burns. I was 8 and didn’t know how to time it properly. As soon I smelled the acrid scent, I’d run to shut the microwave off. It was always too late and I didn't care. The melted dark chocolate plate was delicious.
"Don't lick your fingers. Don't use too many toppings. Don't make a mess." The instructor snaps. She might profess a love for chocolate but doesn’t seem to feel the same about her students. Her assistant passes around paper cones for us to start working with. I get back in memory lane. This time, I'm 17 years old.
I was in 12th grade and had Sunday classes, so every Sunday at 4:30 am, I'd board a bus from Milwaukee to school. I could have stayed in the dorms for the weekend, but my dad wanted me home. Arriving in downtown Chicago, I’d stumble down the steps and orient myself with the Willis Tower. I was so tired every week, I’d never remember my way from the bus stop to school. With my half-shut eyes and fingers fumbling with Google Maps, I'd catch a familiar whiff.
Almost every Sunday, one of the factories would belch out burnt chocolate. I had no clue where it came from, or why. The irresistible smell would follow us on our 15-minute walk to the subway. My siblings hated it. For me, it served as a peculiar awakening. Every sniff spun my imagination. The Willy Wonka image of an intentional mishap was intoxicating. I imagined colossal pots of chocolate, burned at the bottom. I wished I could stick my fingers in, and take a lick. I never quite figured out why downtown Chicago smelled like chocolate, but it made every Sunday morning a wee bit more exciting.
The instructor's stern voice snaps me back to the present. “Use a thermometer at home! If the heat is too low it won't melt, if it’s too high, it’ll burn!” We get to work rolling truffles and I sneak a peak at the vats across from me. The dark chocolate one is set at 53f. What would the room smell like if it burned?
If this piece made you feel something, let me know. Click the heart or drop a comment - thank you ❤️
Your visual pop descriptions are exceptional! Could feel the chocolate and you generated a whole new category of chocolate with just one piece. Burned Chocolate has a position of its own!
Beautiful story ❤️