It's also kind of an ode to my hubby, who is a chocolate aficionado, but only if no milk or cream has come into contact with it. He likes it, like his coffee and beer, dark, complex, and bitter. Before meeting him, I didn't think I liked chocolate. But now I know better: I've learned to love the fruity, complex over and undertones of a piece of good dark chocolate. Scharffenberger's 62% is my very favorite.
Ode to Chocolate
I hate milk chocolate, don't want clouds
of cream diluting the dark night sky,
don't want pralines or raisins, rubble
in this smooth plateau. I like my coffee
black, my beer from Germany, wine
from Burgundy, the darker, the better.
I like my heroes complicated and brooding,
James Dean in oiled leather, leaning
on a motorcycle. You know the color.
Oh, chocolate! From the spice bazaars
of Africa, hulled in mills, beaten,
pressed in bars. The cold slab of a cave's
interior, when all the stars
have gone to sleep.
Chocolate strolls up to the microphone
and plays jazz at midnight, the low slow
notes of a bass clarinet. Chocolate saunters
down the runway, slouches in quaint
boutiques; its style is je ne sais quoi.
Chocolate stays up late and gambles,
likes roulette. Always bets
on the noir.
"Ode to Chocolate" by Barbara Crooker, from More
.
