It all started out innocent. After a somewhat disappointing Valentine’s day lunch with my husband, I headed home for the afternoon. The plan was to finish some work in the comfort of my own living room. But things took a different turn when I discovered the familiar pillow shaped package in my mailbox. It was my monthly chocolate subscription from an online retailer. Was it fate or the thoughtful distributor’s timing that the package arrived right on Valentine’s day, a couple of days earlier than expected. It prompted a certain kind of excitement in me, which quickly faded into self-ridicule. Valentine’s day and chocolate? What a cliche!
Nonetheless, I hauled my new acquisition up to the bedroom without any delay. I did plan on sampling some chocolate this afternoon anyway, I figured I might as well pick something from the new arrivals. I lazily proceeded with my usual cataloging and photographing. The selection, as always, was inviting. Spending unjustifiably long time trying to capture the beauty of the chocolate wrappers, derailing me from my intended tasting, became almost as important part of the routine as the tasting itself. God put a desire in our hearts to please our social media followers and who am I to question his wisdom on this one? After the necessary group photo I tried to single out one bar to take a few pics and eat a square or two of, then write my notes.
I felt like a damsel at a gallery opening gala choc full of eligible bachelors. Prowling, observing the candidates. The serious looking corporate lawyer and the free-spirited sketch artist, clearly more in touch with his feminine side, both seemed like excellent choices to get acquainted with. Even the mayor from the chocolate capital – whose reputation preceded him and all others were measured against – was present and available for the taking. As I eeny-meeny-miny-moed back and forth a new kinda sensation took over. I grabbed the bar with the least sophisticated appearance, the Kermit looking fella. Fired three snaps with my smartphone camera, and without a second of hesitation, tore into the wrapping. After I recomposed from my initial hastiness I forced some control on myself. Why did I choose the quirky bartender I didn’t even consider much as an option when I first evaluated the lineup? Like choosing a less attractive partner for the night to eliminate the pressure of having to impress. Someone you can be less ceremonial with. Someone you have no long term plans with, just to have a good time and part your ways when you are done.
Norandino? Must be new in town. I didn’t recall meeting him anywhere before. Unlike the other guys, I do see popping up here and there in our small community of chocolate enthusiasts or overhear their names in conversations when the town’s abuzzin’ with excitement over something chat-worthy. His family, the Acallis, have a decent reputation, but I was unaware that this particular descendant existed. Oh, well. Here he is. And there’s no denying of the certain appeal that stirred some curiosity in me. I broke a square off of the bar, carefully observing the sound, then lifted it closer to my nose to inhale the aromas finally liberated from their prison. All my senses were playing tricks on me at this point. I swear I heard a faint but tantalizing calling “I need a dirty woman…oooh I need a dirty girl” My brain was still in the process of finding words to match the sensations I was experiencing. I was first thinking in terms of flavor notes. But somewhere from the darkest, most primal part of my psyche, I heard an unfamiliarly seductive threat: when I’m done with you, your own mother won’t recognize you.
Whoah! Cool that sizzle, Missy, I told myself. I wanted to quiet this strange voice in my head, but my body launched into motion before I could construct a plan of action. Without approval. Without discipline. Without the usual dinner and movie routine. I jump started this tango with the passion of a sex-starved convict and bit, yes BIT, a chunk out of the bar! I froze with shock at my own actions and behavior. This is not me! I just Evander Holyfielded this poor bastard. This is blasphemy! I don’t even feel comfortable with the idea of chewing chocolate, let alone biting it. I’m a lady. We break and insert. Break. Insert. Never in my life have I bitten directly into a chocolate bar. Not even a store-bought bar I have no respect for. Nor a good one I fantasized about for a long time before finally getting my hands on it.
But this Peruvian heartthrob was different. I already knew I wasn’t gonna share it with anyone. Why should I bother with the etiquette? I took another bite. And another one. MORE! screamed my palate. Mi Amore! sighed my heart. NO! Randi, no! – whispered my common sense with an undertone of defeat. He seemed as innocent as an altar boy and look at the path he led me down on. Guilt surged through my veins once again. What have I done? With no written record of my first impression, what will I put in my chocolate journal? I told myself I will redo the tasting another time like none of this happened. When I’m more focused and conscious of my sampling. Another time, I repeated as a reassuring mantra. Like nothing irreversible happened, no permanent damage done.
But I couldn’t just put him back with my stash looking like this! I panicked. I had to get rid of all the evidence. You wouldn’t let a coworker, you just did a number on in the copy room, walk back to his cubicle with shirt half tucked in and hair full of staples removed from documents before they met their demise in the shredder. I cautiously nibbled the tattletale bitemark ridges down to align with the mold imprint lines. I really had to control myself not to give into temptation again. But when I was finally done, and he was in presentable condition, I still couldn’t bring myself to send him sitting at the bottom of my stash box. Miserably waiting for my return, dreaming of the next opportunity when we can be together again. Against my better judgment, I slipped him into my purse and took him with me on my usual ride collecting my offsprings from daycare and after-school activities ….
….That’s how I found myself leaning against the hallway wall at the music school. My need for privacy stripped completely, shamelessly munching on my chocolate IN PUBLIC as I waited for my daughter to finish her drum lesson. And once again in my sensibly equipped, family friendly vehicle in the Kmart parking lot. Just a short hour after we first met, here I was again, calling on him to satisfy my resurging demands. Over and over. Lusting after him like a common whore. He obediently melted as I wrapped my lips around. The flavor burned itself into my palate and my brain as my tongue went from stroking wild to gently caressing its treasure. As the last piece eventually vanished completely a sense of relief washed over me. It’s done and over with. The one thing that brought such animal instincts out of me is no more.
Was it the thirst for revenge that sprouted in my heart as I watched my husband flirt with the waitress at lunch that sent me drowning in this sea of chocolatey pleasure? Or my long-suppressed desires I was harboring that drove me to devour this dark angel of seduction with such ferocity? I’m sure he’s not the first victim of the chocolate #metoo incidents, but I wonder how he feels about all that happened between us. Am I a predator preying on the innocent? Or is it the other way around?
After this unexpected rollercoaster ride of self-discovery, the rest of the evening went seemingly uneventful. My husband surely made up for the mediocre lunch conversation with flowers and a generous selection of semi-decent chocolate bars available at our local store. They seemed pale in comparison as flashbacks of my encounter with my Peruvian demon still haunted me. I’m glad he’s gone. I don’t think I could handle this kinda passion on a daily basis. But if our paths cross again I’m afraid I won’t be able to resist tumbling down this rabbit hole of madness once more. Norandino, mi Amore….. until next time.
Norandino – Aftermath
My encounter with Norandino changed me in unexpected ways. I now stare into the eyes of strangers I pass on the street. Instead of removing all pillows, when making my bed in the morning, I just unwrinkle the sheets underneath by stretching them flat. I let the sesame seeds that escape my breakfast bagel run free, towards their destiny, instead of forcing them back into the confinement of the melted cheese and scrambled eggs. The world probably hasn’t even noticed these minor adjustments, but to me, the whole world changed since that secret afternoon affair. Only my children seem to have sensed it and now approach chocolate with an unstoppable free for all attitude. Disobeying previously established restrictions. Disregarding the sanctuary state status of my nightstand drawer, where my quality craft chocolates used to lay safe, out of harm’s way, untouchable. Any chocolate left outside… forget about it! It’s gone before I turn my head. Even the out-of-reach bookshelf-top storage doesn’t seem like an obstacle anymore for these hordes of miniature barbarians, ravaging through the once peaceful landscape of my home, full of cluster village-like chocolate piles. Leaving debris of nuts, nibs and other inclusions smooshed into the carpet fibers in their wake and a river of wrappers torn in abstract shapes, requiring a skilled hand in puzzles to reconstruct a piece large enough for the maker or the origin to be recognizable. A solid aroma of chocolate lingers in every room as a memento to the heroes that have fallen. A couple of my best bars succumbed to this revolt in our household. But I no longer mind any of it. Norandino taught me that some things just have to be left untamed. Even in ourselves. He may be a bad boy (I learned it the hard way) but I wouldn’t change a thing about him. Have you met Norandino?
