I’m losing my edge. Wes and I faced off for a brownie this afternoon and we ended up splitting it. Just typing that out makes me feel vaguely soiled.
You see, back in the sweet halcyon days of newlywed bliss, Wes and I had a bit of an understanding about the chocolate in our household. The only thing he needed to understand was that I had needs he would never be able to fully comprehend and, as such, I had full rights to any chocolate that might survive long enough in the kitchen to be contested.
This chocolate monopoly began long before I even knew Wes. I was so famous for inhaling any chocolate within my reach that my mother began hiding her chocolate in a fruitless endeavor to preserve it.
She hid it in the freezer, the garage, the back of the pantry; she even tried buying 70% cocoa baking chocolate in an effort to turn me off the stuff (it didn’t work.) Eventually she had to face the facts and ended up buying a Costco box of Carmellos that we split with the mutual understanding that we would only go through one bar per day. An uneasy peace was had by all.
I might mention that this battle royale was waged in a house also occupied by two young boys and my mom’s husband. They were lucky if there were any crumbs left when my mom and I were through. Heaven help them if they touched our chocolate, though. We made shark feeding frenzies look like brunch at the Ritz-Carlton and any men who got in the way were considered collateral damage. The broken eggs to our omelette, as it were.
Anyway, I have a precedent for being rather, umm, shall we say “protective” of the chocolate in the house? Wes learned this painful lesson early on in our marriage when he bought two candy bars, ate one, and thought he’d save the second one for later. It was never seen again and, when he asked me about it, I shrugged and mentioned that there was no name on the bar and, as such, no rightful claim.
He was smart and left it at that.
Fast forward to this afternoon, though. There was one brownie left and Wes had the temerity to ask me if I wanted to split it. Truly I am losing my touch if my husband feels safe enough to ask me if I want to split the last remaining piece of chocolate in our house. I, being the mature adult I often appear to be, consented to split said brownie but obviously I’m still rather perturbed.
I mean, I forsee only terrible things as the result of this breach in my iron hold on all things chocolate in this house. What’s next? Will he suddenly rebel against my no-dirty-laundry-on-the-floor rule? Will dirty dishes start snubbing their noses at me from all places forbidden (meaning not in the sink)?! Will there be dirty shoes all over my carpet?!
Perhaps he’ll go for the trifecta and eat the last piece of chocolate right in front of me while plopping a wet towel in a corner of the bathroom and rubbing muddy shoes over the freshly vacuumed stairs. Oh my, I think I may have just ruptured something…