Last month while in San Francisco, Jason visited the Ghirardelli factory and came home with a sweet surprise - five, to be exact. Five chocolate bars ranging in their cacao percentage (but all dark), one with bits of toffee. For several days, I went to bed finding one or two chocolate bars tucked beneath my pillow. The two darkest bars (86% cacao) have been eaten slowly, broken into bits and added to teacups filled with walnuts. It's my latest simple pleasure. This is a walnut-spiked-with-dark-chocolate teacup afternoon. Cloudy with a touch of foreboding (or maybe, that's just the wind bringing attention to the oft overlooked hollows of the land). It's the sort of day that presses upon me to take my teacup and seek out a Carnegie library with wooden card catalogues filled with index cards; books with tired pages oiled by years of roaming fingers; rooms perfumed in musk, casting a scent of adventure - undiscovered nooks to be found, cluttered dank basements for a reader's spelunking. But a little boy begs to be rocked to sleep, while his sister (wearing her headband like Pocahontas) checks the window every third minute to see if her Grammy has arrived (singing a song while sitting on the steps in an enchantress' effort to call her Grammy to her). There will be no spelunking today or adventures between the stacks while other sweet duties call. No. Just one teacup. Emptied slowly.
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