willy wonka doesn’t live here

There are Jefferson cups that adorn almost every flat surface in my home. My mother has bought me one, or twelve, every year since I graduated from high school and headed to the university started by Jefferson himself. All those Jefferson cups, well 4 of them, are filled with chocolate.

I have a lot of chocolate in my house. I have had since I moved in. It started with the odd bag of Dove dark chocolate squares bought on a whim every few months. Then it morphed into Hershey kisses on sale after Halloween and Christmas and Easter and Valentine’s Day and well anytime chocolate is on sale. And the chocolate has spilled from the Jefferson cups to a large glass trifle dish sitting prominently in my dining room.

I don’t eat it that often. It’s really meant for guests and I notice and remember the chocolate when girl friends come over and I see them rummaging in the cups beside them or during voyages to the dining room. The girls move and shift the miniature tootsie pops, the miniature M Azing bars, the Lindt chocolate eggs, the kisses, and the Butterfinger Easter eggs trying to get to the one they want, the chocolate that will satisfy their need for love.

I’ve heard that chocolate contains some sort of chemical or enzyme or whatever that produces the same feeling that the emotion of love does in the brain. That explains a good deal about why women love chocolate. Because ultimately, we want that hazy, crazy love buzz.

I say I don’t eat the chocolate that often, and I don’t, but last night and tonight, the trifle bowl has moved from its place in the dining room to the floor beside the couch in the living room. Yep, wookin’ por nub in all da wong paces. Wookin’ por nub.

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