... is always chocolate. Sometimes alcohol. Sometimes both combined in a delicate and beautiful combination known as chocolate liqueurs.
When I was a girl (I'd say around five or so) my mother received a Christmas/Holiday gift from someone: a little miniature wine case with little chocolates shaped as wine bottles (something like
this, though the crate my mother received contained way more than eight mini-bottles). Each metallic wrapper bore the brand name of a different alcoholic product. One was peach schnapps. One was jet-black with the Jack Daniels brand on it. Each looked enticing. It was candy. Candy couldn't be bad, no way, no how.
I knew it was my mother's present, not mine. But the covetous thought of chocolates that did not belong to me was too great a temptation to ignore.
While my mother was in her bedroom, I sat quietly on the floor in the corner of the living room, unwrapping the little bottles from their crinkly prisons, biting the tops of the chocolate bottles, drinking the surprisingly potent and yummy liquid therein, and then shoving the devoid remains into my mouth. I disposed of the wrappers by hiding them underneath the sofa, one at a time.
When I came to the end of my devious excursion, I was left with a tiny crate. The empty crate was a strong reminder of the wrongness of what I had just done. 64 empty squares stared up at me in accusation.
After pondering my guilt for a brief moment, I placed the empty crate underneath the sofa as well.
I don't know how long this process took. It could have been as little as fifteen minutes. It could have been as long as an hour and a half. But, knowing that my mother would not leave me alone for so long, especially when I was so quiet, it was probably a lesser amount of time rather than a longer amount. Either way, she had some inkling that if it was too quiet, I was probably Up To Something.
She came out into the living room and looked at me suspiciously. By this time, I was sitting on the couch watching cartoons, wondering why the room was spinning like a top. Since she saw no evidence of tomfoolery, and since me watching cartoons looking like I was drunk was a normal occurrence, she went back into her room.
I thought I had gotten away with it... until later that night when she went to find the mini-crate and it was missing. That and me puking up something that smelled like rum and dark chocolate.
The End
