Death by Chocolate

It is a little yearly habit I have developed since coming to Concordia. On the evening before the final day, I hie myself to the local market and indulge in a piece of Death by Chocolate. First time I honestly thought it was just a normal piece of chocolate cake with gooey frosting. Cut in squares. Big squares. They had a nice little strawberry piece, a lemon one, and a keylime one as well.

That first year, I was just hungry and wanted something a bit sweet. So I asked the guy behind the bakery counter for the Death by Chocolate square. Not that I was looking for death, mind you. But the name reminded me of an old Agatha Christie novel. I tucked the little bag under my arm, little realizing what a treasure I possessed, and headed back to the dorm. I sort of forgot about it as I was studying for my final.

It wasn't until just before I hit the sheets that I remembered the little white bag with its innocent contents. I unearthed it from a mound of study guides, popped open the plastic container, rummaged around for a fork, and took a bite. How do you describe the sensation of silk melting in your mouth, slipping warm and decadent around your cheeks and sliding smooth as oil down your throat? It was unbelievable. I stared at the piece of cake, trying to see if it was really moose or whipped cream or custard. There was just a hint of raspberry and mint in the perfect proportions.

I took another bite, closing my eyes to fully appreciate the unfolding of the delicate flavors, the creamy consistency of the confection. I held the gooey mass in my mouth for as long as I could, savoring every wisp of enjoyment it offered. Eagerly I took another bite and another, not chewing, just letting it melt on my tongue. Talk about ambrosia! Who would have believed you could find such a thing in the local supermarket? It seemed incredulous.

In later years, I tried the strawberry, the lemon, the lime. They were all excellent, but none so amazing as the chocolate. No wonder they call it Death by Chocolate while the others just had flavor names. And so it became a tradition. One I do not share with anyone else (who would approve of such fattening fare to begin with, much less permit such indulgence!). I admit it freely. I am a closet cake eater. Once a year. For as long as my program shall last. Sigh.