Going Cocoa Loco

When the chocolate runs out, the paracetamol is close by.

It’s time for me to come clean.

This is no secret though for my friends and loved ones, they know of my weakness and exploit it to their advantage.

I’m a chocolate whore and cocoa is my master.

Milk, dark, 70%, 85%, I don’t care. Cut it with whatever you like Mr Lindt, hazelnuts, almonds, mint. I won’t complain.

I’ll smack you down though if you try to give me white chocolate, I’ll smack you real good. Even if you are the Milky Bar Kid, I’ll smack you down.

My love of cocoa, and I presume its love of me, has just gone through what is happily just a trial separation.

Every year for the past six or seven years I’ve given something up for Lent. Caffeine, beer, sugar, they’ve all been given a penance of 40 days absence from my body. Not for any religious motive mind you, I really don’t think the big fella in the sky cares overly about my eating habits, it’s just a convenient time-frame in which to test yourself. The extra long weekend also gives you time to gorge and purge, gorge and purge, gorge and purge etc.

In my draw at work there usually lurks some delicious foil wrapped delight just waiting to be snapped and sucked upon. That delicious cocoa studded with the healthy addition of nuts keeps the mind attuned and the girth ever rounding.

Chocolate brownie. Not chocolate whitey. That would be awful.
Chocolate brownie. Not chocolate whitey. That would be awful.

But on Shrove Tuesday I licked the last crumb from the bottom of the draw and slid it silently, and just a touch theatrically, shut.

By about 3pm on Ash Wednesday I was still feeling good. The post lunch doziness was averted through the ingestion of sugar coated sugar courtesy of the lolly box at the front counter.

Then the world turned against me. The big fella was watching, and he was turning up the heat.

The lolly box was replaced….with the chocolate box.

Apparently we weren’t eating enough of them they said. I’ll tell you why Miss Chocolate / Lolly box, it’s because it’s not chocolate and they’re cheap and crappy.

So now I had nothing to stem the tide of exhaustion caused by eating a lunch that was big enough for two men. That fine tucker takes some serious digestion and usually my body just shuts down to aid the process. Mind you my workmates haven’t noticed yet thanks to the eyeballs I’ve had tattooed to my eyelids.

Then a young lady in a cafe tried to sneak a dusting of cocoa onto my flat white that I was tasting for our best coffee in Orange award.

It was a flat white….not a cappuccino…there ain’t no chocolate on a flat white, evil temptress.

So there I was looking more like an idiot than usual scraping chocolate of my coffee foam. I could feel people staring, again, more than usual.

Then the family turned against me.

Suddenly chocolate was everywhere. Maybe I just noticed it more. I swear that sometimes I could hear it move.

Chocolate self serving pudding, chocolate cakes of all varieties, mousse, biscuits…none of these were actually made, but they said they would and that, like the bully who says that one day he’s gunna smack you down, is where the damage is done.

I was on the edge of a wafer thin cliff with a waterfall of warm chocolate coursing around me.

Those white flecks are just plain annoying.
Those white flecks are just plain annoying.

Then on the day before Good Friday as I sat in Robbo Park being interviewed by Maryanne and Chris from Orange City Life, a pair of students doing random acts of kindness came upon me. Filled with Christian goodness and a bag of Cadbury eggs, they offered me one.

Without even thinking I took two from the pack and upon smelling the sweet rich drug within I popped those two little orbs straight where they belonged.

Into my top pocket.

I wasn’t going to break big fella. Nice try though.



Category: EatOpinion


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Article by: Mark Logan

Former photojournalist at the CWD, Mark Logan has mixed together his love of technology with his years of experience as a journalist and photographer to develop the Orange Post. The Orange Post is his baby. A baby whose gestation involved countless ideas, numerous bouts of indecision, an infinite number of hours cursing free software and more than one bottle of wine. Whilst he's not trying to cajole people into writing for the Orange Post, he's attempting to sharpen his vegetable gardening skills. He lives in a strangely shaped house in Millthorpe, loves ignoring recipe directions, dabbles in web design for fun, frustration and profit and is constantly in a battle of the wills with his dog Fergus