A student went around the living room one evening offering everyone something out of a box. Several people accepted a piece, took a bite, and then looking like they’d expected lamb and gotten overcooked mutton fat. I asked the student what was in the box, and she told me that it was special fancy chocolate her brother in Ottawa had sent to their family in Saudi Arabia.
I read “Life Brand Dark Chocolate Cranberry Pistachio Bark,” on the lid and smiled.
“Do you know it?” The student asked me. “It’s supposed to be a very good brand, isn’t it?”
“It’s popular,” I said, trying not to laugh, and accepted a piece. It was strong and bitter and sweet, and the only chocolate I’ve had in a year and a half that tasted like chocolate used to.
Buying half-price drugstore holiday chocolate in the aftermath of Christmas was one of my favourite traditions as an adult in Canada, a bit of sweetness after the long shifts at work, bitter fights, bad behaviour, and drunkenness of a holiday I didn’t believe in and would rather have skipped.
I don’t think I would have had the gall to send it to relatives overseas and tell them it was a Canadian specialty, but in truth it is.
I read “Life Brand Dark Chocolate Cranberry Pistachio Bark,” on the lid and smiled.
“Do you know it?” The student asked me. “It’s supposed to be a very good brand, isn’t it?”
“It’s popular,” I said, trying not to laugh, and accepted a piece. It was strong and bitter and sweet, and the only chocolate I’ve had in a year and a half that tasted like chocolate used to.
Buying half-price drugstore holiday chocolate in the aftermath of Christmas was one of my favourite traditions as an adult in Canada, a bit of sweetness after the long shifts at work, bitter fights, bad behaviour, and drunkenness of a holiday I didn’t believe in and would rather have skipped.
I don’t think I would have had the gall to send it to relatives overseas and tell them it was a Canadian specialty, but in truth it is.
