"Dinner Time" -Jesse Pietro

The rays of the setting sun navigate the shield offered by the window pane. Directly in front of me it hangs, exposing a tree laden view of the world beyond my cozy cave. With an open book clutched in my hands, a narrow, twin sized bed supports me and my shoulder bag of bricks. Light pierces through the window's exposed glass, striking my unadjusted pupils. With a grimace, I glance away. I let my eyes wander, searching for nothing in particular, but rather just needing a rest. They flit to the hand-me-down cherry-wood dresser. From there they wander to the roaring white tiger perched on its top, then to the howling wolf that’s taken residence upon my bleak wall. They desire to comprehend nothing; just wandering.

A steady tick, tock, breaches my adventure clogged brain, sparking a sudden curiosity. It is immediately followed by a wave of apprehension. Purposefully, my eyes search out my lonely avalanche clock restrained to the wall on my right. I strain to read it; 6:54. Dinner, which usually comes prompt at 7, is drawing near. Dread swims in apprehension's wave, carried by the uncomfortable tension that comes at the table. Our small house and thin walls can't confine the elements of strife. Selfish motives drive us to turn against one another. Our vehement shouts pierce the ears of the others, alerting them to the altercation at hand. Sorry, it seems, is an exiled expression. Pride has taken care of that. The results of these elements are never more apparent than when we gather at the table. Eyes stay diverted between disputers, and anger is always an underlying current. It is felt by all, causing a glum shadow to encompass each member of the house. But the shadow entrapts each of us, stalking our hollow wanderings throughout the house beyond the table.

I set the book aside; my lead laden arms no longer have the strength to uphold it. Its exposed covers and protruding spine gaze at me from their resting place. To my eyes it appears as an eagle, flying in the midst of a crinkled, unkempt comforter. The title running down its spine gazes at me, almost as if crying out for me to climb aboard its wings; to re-join it as it soars above the pillow-tops and crinkles in complete freedom. My heart yearns to do so; the black and white letter filled pages offer an escape, for in these faraway places of magic and adventure, my vulnerable heart finds peace. It is a sanctuary, sheltering me from the ruckus and conflict of a divided home. With 5 siblings, including me, and disputing parents, we swarm the house like locusts, leaving only chaos and stress in our tracks.

Voices, raised in anger and contempt, was oft to be heard like a whirlwind screeching throughout the halls. In the bible it says that Jesus will divide families with a sword. I don't know why he chose mine, but his sword is the arguing words slashing division in our home. Siblings turn against siblings, and mother against father, each in a rage. Just last night voices of dispute could be heard from my parents bedroom. They tried to keep it shushed, but in the silence of the night even an angry whisper can traverse long distances. I tried to block it out, but even an adventure story wasn't strong enough to contain my dammed evesdropping ears.

And so, consumed was my house, by animosity, tension, separation and solitude. Love, though immeasurably great, has become but a whisper on the wind; clouded by the strife consuming our home. It is too much for this tender hearted ginger to endure, so books have become my fortress. But I shall have to leave this shelter, spread-eagled upon my bed, unable to return until after the ensuing dinner.

I draw my self back from the dark reflections of my heart. There's no need to reflect on past fights when the chances are likely another shall take place tonight. Resignation sets in; penetrating the depths of my core. Time to get up, I tell myself. Dinner is at hand.

As if on cue, “Dinner time!!” My mom’s voice echoes through the house, calling us all to the table. I heave myself from the bed, finding unsteady legs as little support. Blood rushes to my brain, causing my room to revolve in a nauseating manner. Phewww... head rush... I close my eyes and give my head a gentle shake. When my eyes reopen the world is settled where it ought to be. Reaching my hand toward the door knob, I grasp it and pause. A heavy sigh escapes before I yank sharply on my impossible-to-open door.

A rush of delicious smelling odors bombards my nose as I stagger out of my room. I recognize it immediately. Mom’s made Green chili!! My absolute favorite!! For though the most strenuous of her meals, it was also the most delicious as well. Hope is ignited. For how could anyone even think to be in contention with such a delicous meal to be devoured.

Now, the ever present love, that was once a whisper on the wind, is made clear as day. Like the sunlight that pierced my eye, it pierces my heart. This time gleaning not a grimace but a smile, giving my eyes clear direction; I am driven to where my mother’s love was poured out as she worked tirelessly for hours on end above the flaming stove. Containing no care for her self, or the sweat dripping from her brow, she slaved. For what mattered most was uniting this divided family. Even if it was just for a night, I know it would be worth it for her, worth it for all, because tonight, the dinner table would be a sanctuary of its own kind. One too, that would envelop us in peace. Like the eagle soaring above the crinkles on my bed, we too, would to soar above the strife and contempt so that we may enjoy this meal as a family in unison.

Upon entering the kitchen I am staggered to find that unity had already appeared this night; next to my mom slaved my dad. Hungrily I glance around; a variety of fresh cut vegetables arranges our table with seven places set, two already filled by my ravenous older brothers. And on the stove next to my mom’s pot of green chili perches a skillet. Beans. But not just any beans. My dad’s beans. Ones that were slow cooked to perfection, relentlessly mashed only to be thrown in to a skillet and refried to absolute perfection. Burritos were to be consumed, and they couldn’t have come at a more dire time.

Grinning ear to ear, seven faces sit at our table to have dinner. My father says grace as we all close our eyes. Amen, the cue to dig in. There is no time for words of strife, or in fact any words at all. Eagernes and joy fills us each, as, in unison, seven forks deliver a bit of the tirelessly prepared, mouthwateringly delicious meal. Each bite pushes out the dividing contempt for one another, replacing it with loving content of being together as a family. And as we consume this food, a single eagle swoops the 7 of us up. Our destination tonight is not a home destroyed by the whirlwind of dispute. Instead it is a sanctuary of peace found in the home-cooked, love-filled, inner layers of a smothered green chili bean burrito.

Dark to Light with a Pinch of Pepper (Porfolio)

by Olga Sago

My mouth opens wide in horror as my brother devours the delicious steaming bowl of freshly cooked pelmeni sitting right in front of me with layers of black pepper. I screamed with my face turning bright red and my eyes filled with fury. He knew I despised pepper, yet there it was, the black powder now comfortably sitting on the tops of my warm pelmeni making one big dark irregular circle in a white bowl. My brother laughed at me as I stared in disgust at the now perfectly ruined bowl of freshly cooked pelmeni and refused to eat it.

I must have been around seven years old then, when my first terrifying encounter with black pepper occurred. My mom, my brother, and I were living in a two room (kitchen and living room by Russian standards) apartment in an old brick building in Almaty, Kazakhstan. She had spent most of that day cooking pelmeni for supper. When we sat down at the dining table in our small kitchen/dining room with the lights on and our tiny black and white television playing a TV serial on channel 1, the green tea was hot in our cups, and a little bit of steam was still coming off the bowls of the pelmeni set on the table. Each one of us began to accommodate our bowls with salt, pepper and locally bought sour cream; my brother sprinkled pepper on his bowl, and I sprinkled mine with salt. Then, for some reason or due to a conversation that occurred right before, which I do not recall now, my brother leaned over to me and sprinkled a ton of black pepper on the tops of my already salt covered pelmeni making me one furious child.

About four years passed and the three of us moved to the “freedom land,” the U.S.. I already had four years of English classes under my belt by then, but barely knew anything about the U.S.A., not even where it was located exactly. Therefore, flying across the Atlantic ocean and moving to a completely different continent not only meant learning to use the English language in everyday conversations, but also familiarizing myself with their culture and adapting to the American lifestyle. However, adapting to the ways of American people also meant the introduction of new spices and an increase in the use of black pepper, which would all begin to burn my tongue as soon as the two come in contact. I was like the spice police, for I could taste even the slightest pinch of pepper in a dish, that, of course, meant numerous pointless arguments with my step dad at the dinner table during, which I never won.

My step dad is a typical country raised American male, therefore, he is a salt and pepper person. He put salt and pepper on everything from meat, salads to soups, and even on sliced tomatoes (ewww!). I, of course, only liked salt, and pepper set my tongue on fire. Therefore, one evening during a supper my step dad cooked, I told him I couldn’t eat the pork that was accompanied by right of the hot stove mashed potatoes with brown creamy gravy and some green beans. “It’s too hot,” I said. “That’s ridiculous. How can it be too hot when I barely put any pepper in it?,“ my step dad replied. “I can taste it,” I told him. Yet, But in the end, I still had to eat the pork, as well as learn to embrace to the pepper and one way or another get my senses used to the spiciness.

Several years passed, I graduated from Middle School, and was now attending High School. By that time, the sensitivity to pepper decreased in my mouth, thanks to my hard work, and I was taking a Food Experience class learning how to cook. Even though, there are only a certain amount of recipes and dishes taught in the three month time frame, I still learned a good variety. When 10th grade came around, I was already cooking supper for my family. As a beginner cook, I started out “by the book” using exact measurements and cooking times; pepper, salt, and other spices became my regular guests of honor in the recipes. Therefore, every time fish, chicken or pork was on the menu, I would take out all the spices to be used with pepper always among them. I usually cooked the meat either shake-n-bake style or with some kind of sauce, which all come out delicious. My specialty, however, was the salad.

One evening during spring, I was preparing supper when I decided to mix the salad up a bit. Instead of the usual boring green salad (lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes, carrots, and onions), I only used half of the vegetables excluding the carrots and onions. Then, after sprinkling a bunch of salt and pepper, I poured some extra virgin olive oil. It took several tasting for the flavor to have just the right amount of olive oil and spices to bring out the best of the salad. The salad was now my latest creation, and delicious would an understatement. My mom devoured over the bowl in which the salad was resting. She practically ate the entire bowl herself leaving no leftovers except some of the olive oil that dripped off the greenery with me smiling at the success.

I graduated High School a year after and began attending Red Rocks. As a freshman in college now, I am a young woman eager to experience what life has to offer. Years of adapting to the taste of black pepper has prepared me to face whatever might be thrown at me in the years to come with my eyes wide open and alert. Thus, just as pepper has come a long way traveling all over the world from its birth soil in India to finally ending up in the little glass canister on the countertop in my country style kitchen, I have grown up, adapting to the world around me as it changes and embracing life as it comes at me.

The Food Experience (portfolio)- Ashley Crowe

As I sat at the table staring at this horrid, unrecognizable pile of mush on my plate, I wished that I had a mom who could make a dinner that actually appealed to human tastes. This was a thought I had in my youth, perhaps a little too often. You see, my step mom was raised in a very poor part of Wyoming. Due to this, her parents had to find very unique ways to make meals that fit the budget. Unfortunately, this practice stretched across the generations into my step moms food repertoire and devastated our family meals. I knew we weren't financially gifted while growing up, but we weren't dirt poor either, so I never understood why she resorted to these food abominations that even the family dog would leave untouched, these atrocities known as casseroles.

My mom would never warn me when she was planning to cook these crimes against the human taste bud, but soon I could detect the various scents of food that should never be forced to share the same dish. Sweet green beans that if cooked in any other fashion would be a crisp, juicy, delicious side dish. Baked chicken which would be a delectable main course if not for it's mushy and creamy counterparts. Graham crackers had absolutely no business in this dish, but alas, my stepmother was not clued into this fact. Even something as delicious and creamy as homemade gravy was carelessly tossed into this food travesty acting as a sort of glue to hold this disgusting dish together. For an average household, these smells lingering in the air might mean a delicious dinner consisting of perfectly grilled chicken with heavenly homemade gravy and fresh cut green beans, but my stepmother made sure this plague of humanity did not die with her childhood.

To be fair, I'm not exactly the best judge when it comes to food. Growing up I had a very particular palette. If I had my choice, my diet would've consisted of nothing but peanut butter and jelly, Kraft macaroni and cheese, cereal, cheese, and pizza. To make matters worse, I can't stand when certain foods touch and contaminate each other. This probably contributed more than anything else to my hatred of these goopy, chewy, smelly dishes. The nights on which my stepmother made these casserole dinners were my worst nightmare.

I went to take my mandatory fist bite to assure my parents that I indeed still didn't like casseroles. I regretted every moment because I knew that nothing had changed. “If I didn’t like it last time what makes my parents think I'm going to like it this time” I thought. Every second seemed to be longer than the last. I could see my hand coming towards my mouth with a spoonful of this horrid goop, every inch of me screamed “Don't do it!” but I had to keep moving. As the spoon finally entered my mouth, I tried not to gag as I felt the intense slime stick to the sides of my mouth. The chunks beating against my tongue and the taste of dirt with milk and the dry dull taste of bark mixed with the grainy texture of sand. I knew all I could do was breathe deep and try to ignore the urge to vomit all over the table. I finally shut my eyes and forced myself to swallow. One big gulp and its finally gone but the taste still lingered in my mouth. I proudly showed my mom I had finally done the impossible and swallowed the spoonful and joyfully asked to be excused. I would happily scoot my chair out as quickly and quietly as humanly possible. I rushed to the kitchen and dumped my plate full of this ungodly mess in the sink. I reached for a glass from the cupboard excitedly, knowing what was in store. I threw open the fridge door and grabbed the nearest jug I could see and poured the bright green liquid into my glass. Lime flavored Kool-Aide, the only substance powerful enough to cleanse the taste of casserole from my mouth. The liquid would hit the top of the glass and I would chug as fast as I could. I could feel the ice cold liquid fill my mouth and glide down my throat. The taste of sweet green gummy bears swept away the last lingering taste of the nasty dinner that was neither a solid or a liquid. As I took the last big gulp I started to feel a slight smile come across my face. I would set my cup down and realize it’s all over... This time.

Though I am not found of these memories, I am thankful for what those dinners have taught me. First, no matter how hard my parents or I tried, there are just some foods I can never like. Second, sometimes shitty situations happen and there is nothing you can do to get out of them. All you can do is take a deep breath, close your eyes and force yourself to swallow because at the end of it all, you will be able to set your cup down and be able to smile.

Sustainability of Honey (Remixed Essay) -Kirsten West

There are many foods which are considered to be sustainable. To me, sustainable means to preserve. If a food item comes from a home grown place in which it is taken good care of, it’s considered to be sustainable. For example, tomatoes that are grown fresh from a garden are sustainable, or eggs from a farm are also sustainable. I took a further look at one food item, honey. I took a trip to three grocery stores: King Soopers, Walmart, and Vitamin Cottage. I noticed that there were many different brands of honey, along with other food items that said they had honey as an ingredient.

How can we tell if the honey is sustainable? I looked at mass produced brands such as Kroger, and I noticed that both brands did not specify exactly where they process their honey, so therefore you don’t know exactly if it’s sustainable or not. At King Soopers, I found a brand called Ambrosia. Ambrosia has a label on the back that says, “Our honey is processed in a pesticide free farm,” which means it’s sustainable. At Walmart, I learned that the Capilano brand is the market leader of honey in Australia, and has premium quality honey products produced by Australian bee keepers. The company's heritage spans over 55 years, and generations of Australian bee keepers who have grown up producing honey, take care of bees which make it sustainable. Last, The Agave Nectar honey was the only product in Vitamin Cottage that is sustainable because it originates from Colorado Springs, and they are a local farm that takes care of the bees to ensure that the hives are safe from damage.

Although there are many different brands of honey, there are also loads of food which are said to have honey in it, or honey flavoring. General Mills Honey Nut Cheerios

and Nabisco Teddy Grahams are mass produced products. They both contain no facts about where the honey comes from, so in this case it’s hard to tell wether or not they contain honey or if it’s sustainable. Other food items such are Arizona Green Tea with Honey, or Honey Gold Fish, but have no honey in them, just sugar.

Sugar is the main ingredient in honey, but honey produces its own sugars which makes it natural. Sometimes it’s very difficult to tell if the ing

redients in food are sustainable, but others can be easy if you put in a little research.

Food For Thought: Final Draft

By Lindsey Jones

I sit down in my favorite seat at my favorite restaurant. Squirming with anticipation I wait impatiently for my food to arrive. Although I’ve been to Katie Mullen's many times before, until now I have always ordered the same dish; today is different as I’m feeling exceptionally adventurous. My dish finally arrives, the restaurant calls it marinated mushroom and rice, and looking at it I instantly realize that I’ve had this dish before. However, I cannot recall the exact time and place of the previous consumption. I take my first bite and I’m instantly transported back to my childhood in my mother’s warm and inviting kitchen. Although the dish I remember was always called beef stroganoff, the feelings it evokes are entirely the same; happiness, love, and warmth. One may argue that the sense of smell is the strongest sense tied to memory, and I find it entirely arguable that food may be the strongest tangible object tied to memory. What else can so effectively bring about instantaneous memories of people, places, events, and feelings, not to mention complete recollections of the dishes with which it was served?

Christmas is among my favorite holidays. The overall feelings of joy and good will toward man are cliché, but nonetheless true. More important, however, is the feeling of togetherness and celebration of family and friends, which is all the more compounded by food. As trivial as the idea may seem, nothing says “Christmas” more to me than the snacks, treats, drinks, and delicacies served all throughout this one very special day. A Christmas with my family always consists of a feast fit for kings including succulent honey baked ham, cheesy Christmas potatoes that are golden and crunchy, steaming apple cider lightly spiced with rum, and other such delicious delicacies. The memory of such foods always hits home and makes me long for a family gathering. While I may forget what present I gave to whom, or what I received, I never forget my favorite dishes, or the sense of fulfillment at seeing my family gathered around, laughing, enjoying each other’s company, and marveling at the fantastic food!

Of course, the prowess of food is not only limited to holidays. Gatherings for graduations, for example, wherein wholly-different-than-holiday foods are served, have exactly the same effect. Bar-be-cue is hardly a favorite at Christmas or Thanksgiving, but firing up the grill certainly brings people together. There’s something about the sweet smell of marinating ribs and the cool crisp crunch of the vegetable platter that uplifts the spirits of everyone in attendance. Even under some circumstances in which people are unfamiliar with each other, plates full of happiness have a certain way of easing tension in an otherwise uncomfortable crowd. Perhaps it is the food itself that reminds them of other friendly get- togethers and puts them at ease. Whatever the case, less than enthusiastic guests become wrought with the desire to praise fantastic concoctions from those who might have otherwise been offered less than the time of day.

Great food certainly has its niche in society as a bringer of joy and companionship, but what about bad food? In relation to memory, one never, ever forgets the place he or she went and was sickened by the food. Bad food seems to stick to one's memory like a goopy casserole to my mother's dishes. The memory of the food remains prominent and sometimes even recalling the memory can bring an uneasy feeling to the stomach. For instance, I once visited the restaurant Chili's and was fed a less than desirable chicken entrée. The inside of the chicken was pink and appeared undercooked. Although I had eaten at the restaurant plenty of times before and received nothing short of gourmet dishes, after my bad experience the thought of returning there makes me cringe. Foul food definitely leaves its mark upon our memories. Despite a restaurant’s hordes of other menu items or the praise given it by those you come into contact with, said restaurant will forever be tainted in the soul of an ill-fed patron.


Of course, even good food can take its toll, as nearly everyone has a story about a particular food he or she gorged on to the point of madness, and, consequently, would refuse even if told to eat it at gun-point. Take my mother for instance. She often likes to tell the story of when she had been a broke college student and bought a horde water chestnuts. She loved the chestnuts and they were cheap so they were the only thing she ate for two weeks straight. After the two weeks of gorging she became repulsed by them and to this day she picks them out of her Chinese food. Even the crisp crunch and watery aroma of someone else sinking their teeth into a water chestnut transports my mother back to a time of stomach cramps and overwhelming disgust. It is miraculous how once a food is on your hit list you can retain a life-long contempt for the very food that you once cherished.

Consider a time when a friend or family member randomly invited you out for a meal, and while you really didn’t want to go, you had one of the best times you can remember. The moment you sank into a meal fit to wow even the harshest critics, you suddenly couldn’t remember why you didn’t want to leave home and your Hot Pocket in the first place. Take for example, my reluctant visit to my friend Mandy’s house. I was nervous because we had not known each other long and she was inviting me over for dinner during which I would have to meet her family! Not good at meeting new people, I desperately wanted to avoid the situation. However I did not want to ruin my new found friendship so I attended the dinner against my better judgment. Once her mother brought out the main dish of chicken tetrazzini I began to forget all that worried me prior to the dinner. The dish was delicious with grilled chicken, sauteed mushrooms, onions, cheese, and zucchini baked to perfection with noodles in a cream of mushroom sauce. After I had taken my first bite all my apprehension melted away and I thereafter spent countless nights dining with Mandy and her family. Such is the power of food! It is ever seductive, enticing, mouth-watering, and a force to be reckoned with when it comes to things that are forever bound to memory.

A Fine Sunshine Dine Time (Bo Shirley- Final Draft)

White mist explosions tumbled into the dark blue abyss below. Brilliantly bright sunrays kissed the surface of the water as the light faded into the horizon. Waves continuously crashed around me like the sand flowing through an hour glass. I broke my daze and gently swam to the shore to regroup with my friends. We had been surfing all day and had worked up an enormous appetite.

(http://www.dapo.ca/2009/03/21/california-sunset/)

I was sixteen years old on my first roadtrip without adult supervision. My partners in crime were my two best friends, Jesse and Callan. We were staying at Callan's cousin Sara's house in West Hollywood, California with her roomate, a playboy bunny named Angel. Earlier in the day we had cruised on our longboards to Venice beach to meet our friend David, a Cali native and pro surfer. David gave us personal lessons and allowed us to use his boards for the day, and we were going to repay him with dinner later that night. He told us about a popular taco shack north of us on the boardwalk. We all got on longboards and adventured along the coastline as the sun sank into the ocean.

Upon our arrival at the Taco Shack, we discovered a bigger then expected line for what David described as "quick grub". After further investigation we realized a monthly taco contest was starting in thirty minutes and anyone could enter. As many tacos as you could eat in five minutes for five dollars, and the winner recieved a flashy shirt and a fifty dollar Visa gift card. Excited by our possibility of winning thanks to our extremely large appetites we all signed up. However, Callan suggested we give ourselves one extra advantage.

(http://www.sillyamerica.com/blog/2009/08/pepes-soft-taco-eating-contest/)

We had twenty-five minutes to get back in time for the start of the contest. Plenty of time for a group of experienced smokers to roll a joint and enjoy our desired side effect, the munchies. We made our way to David's favorite dispensary on Venice Beach, Dr. Kush. (http://kushdr.com/) We purchased the most expensive strand, Blackberry Kush, since we were spoiling ourselves on vacation with money we had saved working. (http://www.strainreviews.net/indica-strains/blackberry-kush-strain-review-dangreen/) After we power-blazed a quick "sesh", we headed back to the shack with smiles on our face and victory in our red eyes.

We made it back with five minutes to spare. By now my stomach was roaring for food like a hungry lion. All the contestants were seated at a table on the boardwalk, with friendly judges circled around. My friends were just anxious, as well as excited, as I was. Plain tacos with only meat and sauce were brought out in front of us. Mountains of fresh, hot, juicy tacos steamed in front of our slitted eyes and taunted our stomachs. 3! 2! 1! GO! I grabbed a taco and with three enormous bites and a sip of water it vanished. I felt like a factory conveyor belt as my hands and mouth moved in a uniform sequence throwing tacos down my throat. I was too occupied with my own success to spare a quick glance at my now deemed opponents. I was a taco-eating-machine and there was no end in sight.

(http://www.life123.com/food/mexican-food/tacos/how-to-make-tacos.shtml)

The contest abruptly ended with a screeching whistle. Only one word could describe our mood, satisfied. As the judges counted the totals for each contestant, my friends and I reconciled about how delicious the food was. These tacos were the best tasting food I had ever experienced and I had a enjoyable time eating them. I knew this was a memory I would always treasure and add to the collection I had gathered on my adventure in California. "And the winner of the July contest is... Bo Shirley!", yelled the contest official. I was stunned and confused at first. I knew I had eaten a LOT of tacos, but I did not expect to be the winner. My friends were "highly" entertained by the whole situation and besides the official prizes, I earned the nicknames Taco Champ and Fat Ass. To this day I still hear nicknames shouted at me with a smile, allowing me to remember the exciting time I had dining at the taco shack in California.

My Obsession with Chocolate

Todays culture is surrounded by things that shape us into our own identities. Different social classes participate in many different things. Depending on age, ethnicity, sex, and social class, people tend to have their own separate identities that tie in to our culture. I believe that food is one of the many things that help shape us

into who we are. If I was out drinking at bars and clubs I probably would be someone in there 20s. If I had time to cook large dinners for multiple people I would probably be a house mom cooking for her family. If I went out everyday to fast food to get the cheapest items on the menu I would probably be a student out with my friends, but what does everyone have in common, what foods do everyone seem to enjoy? The simply rich, sweet chocolate comes into mind. People young and old seem to all enjoy a chocolate splurge every so often. Chocolate has become one of the most popular desserts, snack foods, and even a social food.

One of my most clear memories was when I was ten years old when my parents told me they were no longer going to be together. Divorce meant nothing to me at the time, but the word “separation” hit me pretty hard. I remember it like it was yesterday. My parents sat both my sister and I down in the living room and explained the problem to us using the most sensitive words in this delicate situation. I remember feeling hopeless, empty in-fact. One of the worst feelings, in my opinion. At the time, it was hard for me to believe ever feeling slightly happy again. After all the tears, things took a turn for the better. My mom took us into the kitchen and told us we were going to bake chocolate chip cookies from an old, simple recipe as if it would be a cure to our hopeless feeling. Once we took all the steps into making these perfect cookies, I actually did feel better. From then on, I started to look at chocolate as an escape. I relied on the rich taste to help me cope with stress and hard times making my problems seem like less vital issues. It wasn’t that chocolate could cure all my problems, but it helped prove me wrong that there wasn’t anything good in life. This one time, chocolate helped me realize that even during difficult times, you still have the little things in life that you can looked forward to.

As I grew older, I experienced new things. I traveled more with my family and visited places aro

und the world. When I visited Europe I found more exotic sweets, at this point it had just become a bad habit to eat and crave chocolate. Italy was one of my favorite places to go to because they are so fond of chocolate. I tried unfamiliar truffles, candies, and sundaes. I also visit California every summer with my dad and we always have to go to Ghirardelli factory. They have the best hot fudge sundaes and everyone goes there to socialize with their friends.

There are advertisements for food all over. Also, there is a movie called “Chocolate.” This movie showed me a new meaning to chocolate by comparing it to a sin. This movie showed religious people who are very disciplined and have different obsessions. When a women opens up a chocolate shop during lent, everyone in the town starts to lead away from there normal traditions. Movies, advertisements, and other media, show us that eating chocolate is a great thing. It is related to feelings such as love, passion, and is said can even enhance arousal. I started convincing myself that aside from the calories and sugars from chocolate, it can be good for you.

There are plenty of other sweets and foods out there, but chocolate will always be one of my favorites. It takes me back to my childhood and reminds me of certain memories in my past. No matter how old I am, I will always see chocolate as an escape. To this day I limit myself on how much I eat, but I will always have that craving and will go on my little splurges every so often.

Images cited:

Chocolate Strawberry

Ghiradelli