One of the books I’m reading to my girls these days is Fantastic Mr. Fox, which inevitably got me thinking about an all-time favorite, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I’m not sure how many times I read that book as a child…I have since read it to my own kids and let me tell you, it was a bit surprising to revisit the story as an adult. Mr. Wonka? You raise my eyebrows, sir.
But I love the story and am thinking, in particular, of the time my 1st grade teacher read it to us in class. I can still remember my toes curling with pleasure when it was time to put our work away and listen to her unfold the tale of little Charlie Bucket.
When she finished the book, my teacher made an astonishing announcement: the following day she would bring a chocolate making machine to school, just like the one Willy Wonka used! I nearly fell of my chair. The line between fantasy and reality has always been rather fluid for me, and no more so than at that moment. The rest of the day passed like a dream and as I lay in bed that night, twitching, my mind careened from one possibility to the next. Would the classroom be edible? Could I lick the chalkboard? Did my teacher rustle up some Oompa Loompas?
When I got to school the next day, breathless from an all out sprint, I was puzzled by the familiar appearance of the classroom. Where was the chocolate river? The funny little man with the tall hat? Being too shy to demand an explanation, my anxiety brought on a low-grade fever as the day plodded along.
Finally, my teacher announced it was time to make the chocolates and would we all be patient while she went to fetch the chocolate machine from her car? That’s odd, I remember thinking, how will she manage such an enormous contraption all by herself? When she reentered the room carrying a Bunsen burner, a bag of chocolate chips, and an assortment of small, plastic molds, I nearly fainted at my desk. The cruelty of that moment, the swift and dispassionate crushing of all my hopes and dreams, still haunts me to this day.
In the ensuing years, I have noticed some people are just that way. They don’t seem to need a great deal of imagination to navigate through life. Which is pure tragedy on the one hand, but with a merciful boon: they avoid the disappointment that comes when reality cannot measure up to the exquisite capacity of the mind. The rest of my classmates were duly impressed to witness 356 waxy brown lumps melt together and be repurposed into twenty-one chocolate hearts. I was the only kid reeling from a death blow to the brain. And I’m not saying which way is better, or if superiority even factors into this at all. I’m just saying.
Anyway, I’m leaving you with a picture of a chocolate that does not disappoint. I took this picture two Christmases ago, which is the last time my mom felt well enough to make her most amazing, highly secretive, blissfully scrumptious chocolates. This was an annual tradition in our family, and having sixty pounds of Belgian chocolate delivered to our door in the middle of November, massive slabs wrapped in thick white paper and bound with red seals, and the steamy sweet smell of pots of fondant bubbling merrily on the stove was sure to set off the bells and whistles of my imagination every time.
