This is an essay I wrote for the Central Utah Writing Project-- a professional development course I took the summer Brent and I were engaged. I had signed up for it before I knew I would shortly be leaving the teaching profession, but I'm so glad I did. It was the best professional development experience I ever had!
Just imagine a bunch of teachers getting together to eat good food, write, and share their writing. I know not everyone would think that was heaven, but I have a few friends out there who I know would agree with me. It was awesome!
This essay started out as a "Scribble"-- a quick morning writing prompt--but later expanded into a longer piece. I rediscovered it today and thought it would be fun to share. The only thing is that in the four years since writing this, I think I have officially become a chocolate snob. Anything other than good-quality chocolate just doesn't tempt me. And the only chocolate chips I keep around the house now are Ghirardelli bittersweet (yes, not semisweet, but bittersweet). I kind of like to think I'm hard-core.
Here's the essay:
A Lesson on Chocolate
By Sarah Sheranian
Chocolate—considered a candy by some, a food group by
others—is by far the most sophisticated sweet. Its history goes back to the Mayans
and Aztecs who used cacao beans to make a bitter drink reserved for royalty. When
Spanish explorers arrived, they recognized chocolate’s value, and soon a
sweetened version was served in every royal court in Europe.
Now over 40,000 different types of chocolate are manufactured in the world, but
every chocolate lover will quickly tell you that not all chocolate is
equal.
About a year ago, a close friend who knew I am a chocolate
purest—the higher cocoa content the better—invited me to a chocolate tasting
party. For $10 we could taste the finest chocolate in the world and hear a lecture
about it. We arrived at a small home in Springville where the host, an engineer
and chocolate connoisseur, invited us into his cozy living room. He passed out lists
of the 12 different chocolates we would try, as well as water and French bread to
cleanse the palette between each taste.
We began with a lesson on chocolate tasting. The first step
before you even put the chocolate in your mouth is to look at it. Notice the
luster and color of the chocolate; high quality chocolate should be dark and
shiny. Next, you smell it. This helps improve your ability to taste the
chocolate once in your mouth. Lastly, you eat the chocolate slowly, allowing it
to melt in your mouth, paying attention to its smoothness, initial taste, and after
taste. Following each chocolate sample, we took notes on our observations and
then discussed our reactions: “Rich and earthy,” “Fruity and tart,” “A soft
beginning, but a strong end.” It was like a book club about chocolate.
I had always known that no two chocolates are alike. Even as
a little girl, I avoided generic chocolate bunnies and gold coins from the
dollar store. And I always thought tootsie rolls shamed the name of chocolate. As
a teenager I truly realized this was so when my best friend brought me back a
Nestle bar (70% cocoa content) from France. The chocolate was more pure
and intense than anything I had ever tasted. As little bits of cocoa beans
crunched in my mouth, I realized how much Nestle takes advantage of
underdeveloped American palates. We were definitely buying different stuff
under the same name.
My sensitivity to chocolate was proven when I won a
chocolate tasting competition at family camp one summer. We had to identify Nestle, Hershey,
Ghirardelli, Swiss, and Spanish chocolate—all while blindfolded. It was easier
than I expected to sense the milky smoothness of Swiss chocolate, the dark
richness of Spanish chocolate, and the familiar, pleasing taste of Ghirardelli,
which I always preferred.
But the chocolate at this party was on a different plane. Expensive.
Refined. Exotic. I had never experienced anything like it. Light as silk, it
quickly melted almost before I had a chance to chew. I was transported to lush
plantations in Madagascar, Venezuela, and Indonesia—plantations
owned by local farmers, plantations that use the same farming techniques as in
ancient Mesoamerica, plantations that grow
mangoes and papaya along side the cacao to give it better flavor. I tasted the
soil, the crops that grew there before the cacao: rich flavors that surprised
my taste buds with new sensations every second.
With so many different flavors in one bite, our taste buds
were on guard. We sat on the edges of our seats in silent concentration as we
tried each new chocolate. Then, in an eruption of “Ooos,” “Ahhs,” and “Blahs,” we
expressed our reactions. One of the main topics of discussion was the
aftertaste. I didn’t realize how important aftertaste was in the enjoyment of
chocolate. Some chocolates left a bitter reminder imprinted on your tongue,
while others left a dull sweetness lingering behind. You couldn’t cleanse your
palette too quickly or you might miss this important element in chocolate
tasting.
Now I must be honest: not all of the samples were pleasant.
Real chocolate, like every other fine food I suppose, is an acquired taste, and
my taste buds were unaccustomed to such an array of sensations. That was to be
expected. What wasn’t to be expected was my reaction to a very familiar
chocolate. After tasting five chocolates from the finest cocoa fields in the
world, we each ate a piece of regular milk chocolate Dove candy. All of us
thought, “Oh good. Something I know.” But we were about to get the shock of our
lives: the taste of gasoline with a hint of peanut butter (and it was not peanut butter candy). The chocolate
was waxy and heavy, its poor quality sticking to our teeth. None of us could
believe that we had willingly purchased and eaten it before.
Luckily, we finished the night with some higher quality
samples. The last chocolates we tasted were from
Chocolatier Blue—a chocolatier
company that prides itself in making the highest quality chocolates in the
world. Supposedly they have searched out the finest ingredients available from premium
raw butter to pistachios from
Sicily
which they purchase for $100 a pound. There are only two stores: one in Berkeley, CA
and one in Salt Lake City, and since the chocolates are about $4 a piece, we
each got to try only half of a truffle. The one I chose was dusted with gold leaf.
I’m not sure if I could really taste the price, but it
was good.
For a long time after the chocolate party, I refrained from
eating any “unworthy” chocolate. But following the natural course of chaos, I
regressed back into my old ways. Don’t get me wrong—I still know what good
chocolate should taste like, but when presented with the average chocolate, I
do eat. In fact, I usually have a bag of regular chocolate chips in my cupboard
to curb a craving if I get one. As much as I’d like to be a chocolate snob, I
am just a wannabe.
This essay started
with Debbie’s candy scribble on the first day of class. The only candy I really
like is chocolate, so that’s where I began, and a flood of memories followed.
Thank you to all the CUWPies for their positive responses that helped me turn
this piece into something more.
What are your thoughts on chocolate?
