Going ChocoBonkers in the time of climate change

When I was a kid, I had a serious addiction. If they’d had support groups for children, I would have been going from the time I was six. There I’d be, all ashamed of myself, standing up and saying, “My name is Beth, and I’m a chocoholic.”

Step One, the honesty step, probably would have involved confessing to my mother that I was the one who broke the cabinet door in the kitchen. It happened because she kept the Snickers and M&M’s in the cabinet above the refrigerator. The garbage can, which had no lid, stood next to the refrigerator. I used it to boost myself up high enough to steal some chocolate by straddling the garbage and balancing on both sides of the can.

It didn’t work out too well one afternoon. I was having some choco-withdrawal symptoms from being in school all day, so I tried stealing some while my mother was in the basement stockpiling canned food in our makeshift bomb shelter. She did this a lot. I got the cabinet door open and reached in. I had nearly nabbed a Snickers when I lost my balance and went crashing to the floor, pulling the cabinet door off its hinges in the process.

I fled out the kitchen door and headed to the farm behind our house. I stayed in the cow barn while Jerry the farmer milked the cows until nearly dark. I figured my mother would be worried about me and relieved to see me return. She wasn’t. She tried blaming me for the mishap. I denied it was me.

Not only didn’t I confess, but I pointed out that she had failed to put a can opener in the bomb shelter, which probably means I had an attitude problem in addition to a chocolate addiction.

But I digress.

Also Step One at Chocoholics Anonymous might have involved apologizing to my father for lying to him about sneaking a bag of those little Nestle chocolate chips up the stairs to my bedroom. By then I was old enough to ride my bike the quarter mile to town. I purchased them with my meager 25-cent weekly allowance that I’d saved up to feed my addiction.

My father was reading the newspaper in his armchair when I entered the house through the front door and began tiptoeing up the stairs. I saw him lower the paper and peer over the top of it.

“What’s in that bag,” he demanded.

“Just these,” I said and showed him my booty.

“Why are you sneaking them in like that?” he said. “Do you plan to eat that whole bag yourself?”

“I wasn’t sneaking,” I said. “I was walking kinda quiet because I didn’t want to disturb you. Of course I wouldn’t eat them all myself! I plan to bake cookies.”

For some reason he bought that lie and went back to his newspaper even though he must have known I’d never baked in my life. (And, come to think of it, I probably should have gone to some Attitude Adjustment meetings for sometimes calling my father Stumpy. It seemed like a good nickname for him because he had one leg missing from the war.)

But I digress once again.

I bring this chocolate issue up because I am, to this day, an addict. I confess this to you all. And I’m a wreck about it because I hear that we’re on the brink of a choctastrophy, the details of which I learned from reading a newspaper.

It turns out that climate change has pushed cocoa prices through the roof due to a drought in West Africa. As a result, some candy companies are changing their milk chocolate recipes in subtle ways.

How subtle, you might ask?

Good question. And the answer is, they are leaving the milk chocolate out of ... chocolate.

Not so subtle, huh. Those of you who are also chocoheads may have already noticed some changes. Many candy bars are smaller now, and they cost more. Easier to miss, though, is that the packages on some candy bars no longer have the words “milk chocolate” on them. Instead, they are labeled “chocolate candy.”

That’s a whole different thing. There’s no more cocoa butter in them. Instead, they’re made with other fats. By law, this means they can’t be called milk chocolate.

I confess I have not yet noticed a difference in taste. Three weeks before Halloween, I bought a bag of 250 little chocolate candies at Sam’s Club. I did this knowing full well that our quiet street rarely got more than a dozen trick-or-treaters. By the time Halloween hit, I’d been totally chocostoned for days. There was only just enough candy left for those dozen kids wandering around dressed as princesses and skeletons.

But I’m no milk chocolate connoisseur; I’m just an addict. Newspaper articles about this choctastrophy report that those connoisseur people – the kind who might go to chocolate-tasting parties – can tell the difference. The candy, they say, is kind of drab.

You be the judge. Next time you buy a candy bar, check the label for the words “milk chocolate.” If it says “chocolate candy” instead, give it a connoisseur’s taste test. Let me know if you can tell the difference by sending an email at huckquinn@gmail.com.

Meanwhile, they say it’s never too late to fix yourself. I’m going in search of a Chocoheads Anonymous meeting. And maybe an Attitude Adjustment group, too.

But I digress ...