A Chocolate Revolution

 Now, before you panic (like I did), keep in mind that this dire prediction has been made before. I even wrote about it in a past column:

https://markrhunter.blogspot.com/2014/03/a-chocolate-lovers-worst-nightmare.html

The prediction: a chocolate shortage.

Okay, you can go ahead and panic now.

 

Yeah, it didn't prove to be so bad after 2014, but this is 2023. Everything is proving to be bad in 2023.

The reason for the shortage is, of course, climate change. About two-thirds of the world's entire supply of cocoa comes from Ivory Coast and Ghana in Africa. We think of Africa as a dry place, but West Africa had been getting way more rainfall than usual, leading to the lowest cocoa harvests in decades. The rain makes cocoa flowers fall off before they can bud, and can also cause a cocoa-killing fungi.

As if that wasn't bad enough, there's a sugar shortage thanks to the climate condition called El Nino. So with two of the main ingredients in short supply, major candy manufacturers are raising prices to compensate for a 46 year high in cocoa value. And worse, just before Christmas. What are the odds?

Hm. Just before Christmas. What are the odds?

This is giving me S'More ideas.

 

I'm smelling a rat, here, instead of a chocolate bunny.

What if it's a conspiracy, designed to put money into the pockets of fat chocolate industrialists. (I'm not being insulting: I just assume anyone who deals with chocolate all day may end up fat.) Maybe they're hoarding all the cocoa and sugar, to make the prices go up? What if the Bilderberg meetings were nothing more than an organized plan to get chocolate into the hands of its members? (which would require a napkin, of course.)

I can see them all sitting around, dipping chocolate into a chocolate fountain, chortling in the way bad guys do. That's why Bill Clinton went over there, to donate his supply of chocolate after Hillary bugged him to eat better. Their Number One is probably a guy named CocoaFinger. Where's James Bond when you need him?

"CocoaFinger, do you expect me to talk?"

"No, Mr. Bond! I expect you to snack! Try the left Kit Kats, they're so much better than the right ones."

Even 007 loves homemade brownies. Stirred, not shaken.

 

Look, we've put up with pandemics, wars, and so many idiots in Washington that the whole town looks like a Three Stooges movie. I'm done putting up with things. Do they think we'll sit idly by while they stockpile Wonka Bars that rightfully belong in my mouth? I mean,our mouth? Mouths?

It's time for a revolution.

Let's make the illuminati illuminate their secret society Snickers silos, stat. We want free M&Ms, not Free Masons! And quickly, before we all waste down to Skull and Bones! The Knights Templar don't scare us, and neither would a visit from the Men In Brown. All we're scared of is low blood sugar. They can have our chocolate when they pry it from our sticky, delicious hands!

We will not go quietly into vanilla flavored desserts!

We will not let our chocolate vanish without a fight!

We're going to snack on. We're going to survive. Today we celebrate INTERNATIONAL CHOCOLATE DAY!

Okay, that's actually in September, but it's the principle.

Say, did anyone just hear the music from "Independence Day"?

 

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Oh my gosh, the hidden chocolate supply--that's The Secret of Oak Island!

Hey, guys--they're doing Valentine's Day again this year.

Coming off the big Sports Bowl weekend, it takes some men awhile to recover their senses and think of other things. They might realize Valentine's Day is coming up, and plan ahead for a special dinner, flowers, flowery dinners, and/or chocolate flowers at dinner.

But probably not.

Because they're men, and when Valentine’s Day is mentioned many will scratch their heads and say, "Are they doing that again this year? Basketball's coming up." 

 

So, here's my suggestion for you guys: Go out right now and order the humor anthology My Funny Valentine in print or, if you're adventurous and your couch is extra comfy, e-book. (I have a few copies on hand.) It's an anthology of humor pieces ... about Valentine's Day. It was really easy to title.

 

One of the humor pieces is mine, and if I do say so myself, it's the best humor piece about Valentine's Day I've ever had published in an anthology.

 

 

 
Maybe your loved one is allergic to flowers and chocolate, and how sad is that? Buy her a book. Most women who read love books. So do men who read, but it's not so hard to shop for men ... or, to put it another way, women are better shoppers.

If your loved one has an e-reader, the Kindle version is just $2.99. If they don’t have one, don’t be cheap—buy them one. If they already have one, be cheap. Or, you could get the print version for $9.95 at Amazon:

https://www.amazon.com/My-Funny-Valentine-MyFunnyBooks-Writers-ebook/dp/B006JROL8K
 

I’d advise against getting them the book for the second or third year in a row, though—they’d certainly notice. But in that case you could go to one of the links below and grab one of my romantic comedies for the loving one you love.

 

 

Romance, humor, history, even YA--whatever your loved one desires except books about chocolate, because ... hm ... why haven't I written a book about chocolate?

http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

  Remember: Every time you buy a book, a cupid gets his bow. Why anyone thinks it's a good idea for a baby to go around shooting arrows, I don't know.

The Joy of Cooking: It's In the Eating

While my wife recovered from surgery a few years ago, I did most of the cooking. I learned something about myself during that time:

I hate cooking.

Oh, who am I kidding? I already knew that.

That is to say, I hate doing the cooking; I do enjoy eating the cooking of others.

Ordinarily she cooks and I clean the kitchen, which has the benefit of us not coming down with food poisoning. I pretend this is a huge sacrifice, but sometimes a little mindless work can be nice and non-stressful.

But cooking? Pure stress, a panic filled hour of spinning from place to place, measuring and timing and trying not to burn the house down. I hate cooking with every bran fiber of my being.

Except for S’Mores. S’Mores are definitely worth working for.

Some people love cooking. They revel in it, joyful in their creation of fancy dishes.

Can we not do something with these people? Help them, somehow? How can we let them just wander around in the streets, searching for ingredients and the newest kitchen device? Isn’t there some medication that could help bring them back to reality, some procedure to help them see the real world? What kind of society are we?

When I told all this to Emily – okay, after a week and a half of cooking it was kind of a rant – she just looked at me calmly and said, “You know, some people think the same thing about writing.”

That hit home, because she and I have been known to spend hours happily pecking away at our keyboards – and no, that’s not code for something.

Okay, maybe the love of cooking isn’t a mental illness. Maybe it’s a … choice. But when it comes to cooking, I choose no.

I didn’t even cook all that much, by most standards. The day of Emily’s surgery, my mother brought over a gallon of spaghetti, a truck load of bread, and enough salad to clean out a whole field. For at least two other days we had takeout, because contractors tore up the kitchen. (I know what you’re thinking: suspicious timing. Let’s just say I left a calendar, with a twenty pinned to a certain date, for the roofer.)

A few times I sneaked in something really simple, along the lines of: “Remove cover. Heat at 400 degrees for thirty minutes. Be careful, product will be hot”.

Once I sneaked over to another family’s carry-in dinner, and ran out with two plates full. Whatever keeps me out of my own kitchen.

Emily couldn’t give me advice even when not heavily medicated, because as a cook she’s what's called a pantser. For her a dash here, a bit there, 350 degrees or so until it looks done … I need an amount, doggone it, and a time. Sometimes I think she just faked being asleep whenever I ran through the room with my hair smoking, yelling “But what does parsley DO?”

So I avoided cooking for as long as I could, but we’d bought ingredients and planned meals. Once she got to the point where she could get up and shuffle around a little, it became too hard to sneak Chinese food through the back door.

After that, from time to time I had to throw together more than three items to make one item, which is when I start to get Harried and Confused, which will be the title of my autobiography. The more items, the harder it is for me to keep my head straight. The more different dishes – and apparently meals are supposed to have, say, veggies and fruit along with the meat – the more confused and stressed I get. Cooking, for me, is like doing brain surgery would be for you. Unless you’re a brain surgeon, in which case you can probably afford a cook.

For awhile it was a tossup whether I’d burn the house down, kill us with salmonella, throw a pot through the window, or all three at the same time.

The joy of cooking was the very opposite of joy.

But then she makes me a brownie heart, and everything’s okay.

This brings me to the big discovery I really made about myself. I already knew I hated cooking, no shocker there, but my epiphany was on a grander scale. Since my teens I knew I wanted to write for a living, and be successful at it. I wanted to be so successful that I could do what I want in my life.

Now I know that I picked the absolute worst career path for financial success, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

And was my ultimate goal a beachfront house in Hawaii? A yacht? Private plane?

Nope.

The older I get, the more I realize all I really want is to hire a private cook, and if they can stick around to clean up, so much the better. Emily might disagree, as she’s one of those poor, sickly souls who like to cook. But I know the true secret of happiness.

And it wears a chef’s hat.

 

 

http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

The Dog Ate My Homework

Here in dispatch we got all sorts of goodies this year in honor of Public Safety Telecommunications Week, much of it in the form of food from various appreciative members of the public. I especially liked one of the first ones, a paper bag full of all sorts of neat snacks, many of them of my favorite type--chocolate. But I wasn't able to partake right away, because right after I got home we had to leave again, to see my mother in the hospital. So, I left it on the kitchen counter until we returned.

The dog ate it.

He left most of the list, so I could see what I was missing.

Most of the chocolate was gone. Dogs love chocolate for the same reason humans do: It's bad for you. But, I'm happy to report, Beowulf made it through the crisis with a smile on his snout and an ache in his stomach. Okay, I'm not so very happy.

It's hard to tell how much of the bag he swallowed, but he didn't get to the microwave popcorn, and apparently the can cooler was too chewy. The green stuff at the bottom left is from one of those Scentsy wax smelly things--but that's another blog.

He also didn't get the gum, which is maybe for the best. Imagine that moment of panic the first time he passed gas after a whole pack of gum moved through his system.



In any case, although I remain less than happy with him, at least Beowulf didn't make himself sick going places he wasn't supposed to go. And me, I've learned my lesson: First, never take your work home. Second, whenever you get chocolate--eat it. Right now.