Last updated on February 9th, 2015
What could be more seductive than chocolate? GFS Contributor C.C. confesses her polyamorous ways…
One day, C.C. had an inescapable urge, an unquenchable desire to start humming a pretty Suzanne Vega song and warble the words:
It won’t do
to dream of caramel,
to think of cinnamon
and long for you.
Now, C.C. never sings, so right away it was clear something was amiss. Something so shocking, so unexpected, that like all juicy secrets, it must be shared.
C.C., it seems, has stepped out on her beloved. It’s madness, unthinkable even, that she could commit such a transgression. We all knew how very, truly, 100% in love she was. How very dedicated, a purist, even. But, alas, she has had a fling.
Yes, it was a brief passionate affair…with caramel. And now that it’s over, sort of, she can talk about it, about how she cheated on chocolate, her most favorite sweet of them all, with that gooey, melty temptress, caramel.
It all started with the French, she said. Oh la la! As it so often does with affairs, mais no? She had innocently picked up a package of Fran’s gray salt caramels in dark chocolate. In their tight package with right angle corners, in their pleated paper holders, all in a neat row, they seemed so proper. Little did she know she was in for a ménage à trois.
Another French transgression, bien sur! But how did she know Fran was French? Because Fran became inspired to become chocolatier on a trip to Paris, naturellement! (Let’s not burst C.C.’s bubble with the fact that caramel was not a French invention, but one of American settlers in the 17th century.)
C.C. thought she could handle the sensible, dark chocolate and the tang of the gray salt, but once the caramel warmed up to a melty wonder, she was hooked in a complex blend of flavors and organic sensations, and from then on, plain old chocolate would no longer do.
From there, she moved on to Béquet, made in Montana but decidedly French–at least C.C., in her sugar-high daze, assumed the name was French. Sexy in their see-thru cello wrappers, she ripped into a Celtic Sea Salt and experienced a greater sweetness, a stronger sugar surge than she had previously known. Oh, and the buttery, buttery, buttery-ness of it all! Melting down the back of her throat in a pleasurable burn.
I know your name,
I know your skin,
I know the way
these things begin…
By then she was on the streets, up in wine country, where Korbel Cellars happened to have a basket of caramels by the door. Enticed by the Happy Goat illustration on the package, she grabbed a packet of Vanilla Bean. She enjoyed these while dining alfresco. What they lacked in throat burn and excessive sugar kick, or even overt buttery-ness, they made up for with their earnest fudge-like consistency and earthiness of goat flavor, so natural and pure. And C.C. realized that maybe there was a way to enjoy these happy, hand-made, free-range goat caramels, but in moderation.
It was there C.C. confessed her dalliances to B.F. Ever the enabler, he promptly hustled down to the Ferry Building and scored some Recchiuti Fleur de Sel Caramels. She opened the lovely lavender box post-haste, and yes, she was back! Back, I say! B.F. hinted that he, too, might enjoy the ménage à trois of flavors. And so they did enjoy that whole box in every way: the salty and the sweet, the chewy and the melty, the silky, smoky, richness of chocolate-covered caramel. And C.C. knew she could have her chocolate and caramel, too.
no single bite