Unidentified Foreign Object

The Man arrived home today with a lovely, squidgy package he received from a client in Rome. Wrapped in green foil, we prodded and poked it as we debated what it could be. Cheese? Coffee? Chocolate? Our minds whipped through the possibilities like kids grabbing candy at a sweet shop.

'I think it's a soft toy,' The Man said, trying to downplay our expectations.

'Naw.' I was sure any self-respecting Italian would never give someone a soft toy. It must be something to eat. Something delicious.

Sniffing the air for clues, we tore open the wrapping. Only to reveal...

OK, so it's a bad picture. But the reality isn't any more illuminating. Is it cake? Is it bread?

We squinted at the tag to try to shed some light. Of course, it's in Italian.

So there it sits, forlornly, on the table.

Our own little UFO.

The Search Is Over

When I was nine, I understood what heaven was. I was in Seville, travelling with my parents through southern Spain. It was almost 40 degrees, and we took shelter inside to get something to drink. I ordered my favourite beverage at the time -- chocolate milk. But what I didn't realise was that I was actually requesting hot chocolate (which accounted for the strange look the waiter gave me -- I'm guessing most Spaniards don't drink hot chocolate in the summer).

When it came, it was even better than the cool chocolate milk I'd been craving. This was hot chocolate unlike any other I'd tasted. In fact, I'm not even sure you could call the powdered variety 'hot chocolate' next to this. Oily and thick, you could practically feel it sliding down your throat, its richness coating your mouth.

For the next 20-odd years, I was destined to wander the world in search of hot chocolate that would measure up to my childhood experience. Nothing did -- until last weekend, when the hot chocolate of my dreams re-entered my life. And it was only been a ten-minute walk from my door-step.

Hotel Chocolat, on High Street Kensington, is a purveyor of all things chocolate, from olive oil to chocolate baguettes. After a walk through nearby Holland Park, The Man and I nipped in for our tea. Always cold, my eyes searched for something to warm me -- and fell upon the 'Liquid Chocolate'. I tried hard not to get excited; I'd been let down so many times before. But this looked promising. There were five varieties, from Valencian Orange to Azteca (with chili). Ever the traditionalist (when it comes to chocolate, anyway), I chose the Classic -- a dark chocolate version. I waited, trembling in anticipation. Mug in hand, I breathed in the heady aroma. So far, so good.

The first sip transported me back to Seville. As the liquid oozed down my throat, I knew the search was over.

The Food Factor

Why is it that when I'm writing, every other activity away from my desk immediately become extremely attractive? Especially in the afternoon, when my concentration begins to wane. It's incredible how strong the urge is to scrub the kitchen floor, given that I'm not exactly obsessive about cleanliness. Or how the half-mouldy loaf of bread on the counter suddenly acquires the allure of a freshly baked baguette.

Onto food. It's it dangerous thing to have around when you're procrastinating, hence the reason I try not to buy anything 'naughty'. I know that despite my best intentions, I'll fabricate excuses to go to the kitchen until it's gone. Here's a list of foods I can no longer buy owing to my disastrous lack of willpower:

Rice cakes - I can't stop at one. Especially the salt and vinegar!
Pine nuts - or any nuts for that matter. One handful is never enough.
Bran Flakes - yes, I've even found a way to crave the blandest of bland cereals.
Hot chocolate - big mistake to buy the mixing powder. I actually resorted to eating it sans liquid.
Sourdough bread with rosemary - Whole Foods is evil. This bread is SO good, especially toasted with tons of butter. One loaf = one day.

I'm sure there are more but I don't want to think about it too much for fear I'll call up any suppressed memories.