Chocolate Trumped

The bard wasn't home anymore. We found him beneath a gaily festooned flower-covered stone. Whether he alone created all those characters continues to be debated, but nevertheless, we traveled to a silvery shrouded Stratford-on-Avon in homage to his unerring prose. Having satisfied our literary curiosity, we needed sustenance of a culinary sort. With tea shops aplenty, we randomly chose one perhaps slightly more quaint than its neighbors.

Inside, we were rewarded with soothing hot tea, served stylishly as English tradition requires. And though the tea was delicious, its flavor has long faded whereas the accompanying Death By Chocolate Cake slices still resonate.

I'll admit to a predilection for all things chocolate. It's a lifelong habit and one that I've reluctantly learned to curb as calories mounted and years, then decades, were added to my personal journey. There's no harm in reminiscing about divine chocolate encounters of the past. Perhaps one of my earliest memories involves plain yellow cake cooked in a shallow pan and spread, still warm, with dense dark frosting. Both the cake and its topping were made by scratch by Mamie, our beloved housekeeper. Maybe it's a good thing I never asked for the recipes. Most likely there weren't any. Mamie cooked by instinct. I know I wouldn't have been able to replicate her results. I am not culinarily gifted.

In the more recent past, I've lost a chocolate cake recipe that included, among its ingredients, sour cream, chocolate chips and a box of chocolate pudding. To frost this cake would have been superfluous. A mere dusting of powdered sugar sufficed.

Some years ago, Henry and I began eating at the 310 Deli on 7th Avenue in Manhattan. In the dessert case, an absurdly rich chocolate cake, studded with chocolate chips assaulted us. We succumbed and I'm embarrassed to admit that we bought more than one slice of this sinfully caloric laden cake. During this summer's visit, we were strong and firmly resisted even a single slice. Any regrets? You bet. There's always next year.

My penchant for chocolate may be deeply ingrained in my psyche but it is totally trumped by my proclivity for reading. I cannot recall a single moment in my life when reading was not a compelling passion. Though I know logically that I couldn't read when I was an infant, I'm also aware from family stories that I mastered reading as a toddler.

My preferred genre is fiction although I am also drawn to other categories such as history, biography, poetry, and the social sciences. Unless required for a school assignment, I would not willingly peruse a scientific tract or one filled with mathematical mysteries.

Growing up isolated on a farm outside of town, books were my transportation. Within their pages, I could be anywhere. I could be anybody. My love and respect for words emanates from devoted reading. I am staggered by the ability of some writers to weave perfect sentences. I find myself gasping aloud and then wondering if anyone heard my exclamations and pondered the source.

A bookmobile brought a ready supply of new 'reads' to my country school each week. I worked my way through the entire 'Childhood in America' biography series. Through those pages, I learned about women important in our history. Meeting Amelia Earhart, Clara Barton, Maria Mitchell, Julia Ward Howe, Susan B. Anthony and others, I felt a pride in their accomplishments. At the time, I didn't realize that the biography series was more 'story' than reality.

If I exhausted my stack of books before I could turn them in for others, I might resort to reading the Hardy Boys' mysteries. Clad in khaki covers with dark brown print, these novels, designed for boy readers, fascinated me. I read every single one of them, on loan from an older male cousin. I moved on to Nancy Drew but found her rather insipid compared to the adventures experienced by the Hardy brothers.

Magazines at our house consisted of the Farm Journal and The Progressive Farmer. Not scintillating stuff for a young girl, but I read every issue. I even entered a contest once, sponsored by one of the journals. All I can recall is that I did not win.

By the time I was in high school, a traveling salesman had convinced my daddy that our household must have a set of the Word Book Encyclopedia. The books were bound in bright red and yes, I began at 'A' and proceeded on to 'Z.' I will confess to generally skipping those entries devoted to subjects in which I had little or no interest.

Books are my constant companions. I still have a wonderful compilation of English and American poetry given to me by my first cousin, Reg, and his wife, Judy, when I graduated from high school in 1963. How could he know I would still treasure this volume nearly fifty years later? Among my most prized possessions is a massive three volume slip cased set of The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson. The books' provenance is especially endearing because they were among the very first gifts I received from Henry shortly after we met. He knew of my deep fondness for Dickinson and wanted me to have her entire works always readily available. The books are prominently displayed on a shelf attached to my desk. I cannot look at them without being nostalgic.

Whenever I'm about to take a trip, I know that I will overpack. It's in my nature to prepare for contingencies that never occur. Multiple outfits are carefully folded into suitcases. Tucked in amongst the excessive clothing is always an equally excessive number of books. What if I finish one and need another immediately? What if the one I'm reading loses its appeal? Better take two. Maybe three. One in each suitcase?

I've shared this book taking trait with my sweet daughter. She's been known to call me in frantic voice as she wanders the aisles of a bookstore on the night before a departure. "What should I buy?" she asks almost plaintively. She, too, has many books in her personal library but..... I offer authors whom I've enjoyed. Some are acceptable, others scorned. She never leaves home without her book cache.

If I am desperate, I will resort to reading the bottom of a Kleenex box. Did you know that much of what is written there is in French? Fascinating. I read labels long before it became a health necessity. Newspapers enthrall me, as do magazines. My favorites are the New York Times, the Los Angeles Times and New York Magazine.

This summer I've mostly foregone the pleasure of chocolate (a few lapses) and concentrated on the comfort of novels. Thoroughly enjoyable and not the tiniest bit fattening are the following:

Cable's Crossing and March
by Geraldine Brooks

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
(How did I miss this treasure all these years?)

The Year We Left Home by Jean Thompson

Big Stone Gap, Big Cherry Holler, and
Milk Glass Moon by Adriana Trigiani

Major Pettigrew's Last Stand by Helen Simonson

I also indulge in something I call 'popcorn for the brain' which describes fiction that requires little effort on the part of the reader. The stories are generally happy and though there may be a bit of mayhem or missed communication, things generally turn out just fine by the last line. These books give my head a rest and keep my eyes focused. Authors to whom I've assigned this category and who might not appreciate the status are:

Sophie Kinsella (The Shopaholic series)
Dorothy Benton Frank
Haywood Smith
Maeve Binchy
Debbie Macomber

As I write, my dining room table is groaning, not with food, but with clothes. There's another trip in our future. Books form several discreet piles with final decisions to be made just before suitcases are zipped shut.

I may take my pages with a bit of English chocolate as we enjoy the beauty of Victoria, British Columbia.