Do you remember when you discovered the joy of cooking or the
pleasures of a particular food?
I know my first real interest in cooking came in the summer
between fourth and fifth grades. My mom
made it pretty clear; if I wanted to eat certain things I needed to cook
them. She didn’t say this in a mean or
sarcastic way at all. She was just
inviting me to be self-sufficient. I’m
glad she did because I clearly love to cook now.
But my first memory of eating a specific processed,
manufactured food was entirely different.
My family moved to Luxembourg just before I started seventh grade. It was a dramatic change, needless to say,
from living in northeast Georgia. Among
the lifestyle shifts was taking the city bus to school. I walked down the street through a grocery
store parking lot and got bus number ten each morning, often in the dark and
went off to an international school with fewer kids in the junior high and high
school than in my entire sixth grade back in Georgia. In the afternoon, the trip home frequently
meant hanging out with classmates downtown before making my way to the
bus. Even once back in the neighborhood
a stroll through the grocery store, the Cactus, was often necessary for a little
snack before heading home and doing homework.
Another American family lived in the area and their kids, a few years
older than me, often rode the same bus. One
afternoon early in seventh grade we all wandered through the grocery store
together. I have no idea what I was
buying, but in the checkout lane one of the other Americans picked up some
candy (do checkout lanes the world over all have candy?) and suggested I try one. I’ll try anything so I grabbed one. In fact, it was four individually wrapped
candies in clear cellophane. Once into
the parking lot the other kid gave me the necessary instructions.
“Ok, you can’t just bite into these. They’re filled with liquid so you have to put
the whole thing in your mouth or be careful.”
I unwrapped one bright pink wrapper and held a small dark
chocolate block in my hand. I popped it
into my mouth and bit in. Wow! A seriously alcoholic juice filled my mouth
as I bit through the chocolate and into a soft cherry. I choked like, well, like a kid trying any
strong liquor would.
Ok, now I knew what to expect. Time for another one. I unwrapped it and looked at it carefully. It obviously had a very thin chocolate shell,
one easily crushed if not careful. I
popped this second one into my mouth but bit into it much more slowly. The liquor leaked out slowly. It tasted delicious, but strong. The chocolate almost seemed to evaporate. The cherry was soft and soaked in booze. I let the flavors swirl and knew then that I
had eaten something spectacular and completely unknown in the States. I had a new love, Mon Cheri. For the next several months I bought these
beautiful little chocolates as often as I could. After a while I shared these at home. I am pretty sure my mother was horrified that
her 12 year old son was coming home popping these things like over grown
M&Ms, but I guess European libertarianism had gotten under her skin. She never forbade me from eating them.
Mon
Cheri, that’s what this candy was called, is actually filled with kirsch
liquor and a Portuguese cherry and is manufactured by the Italian chocolate
giant, Ferrero. You probably know them
as the makers of Nutella. Manufactured
since 1956, the Mon Cheri is the flagship product of Ferrero, even if they sell
more of their other products.
Exceptionally difficult to get in the States, I never stop looking. I found them once at the Christkindlmarket in Daley
Square one Christmas in Chicago. I
bought a significant stash. One bite and
I was instantly transported to the Cactus parking lot. On trips to Europe since I have found them,
most often in duty free shops. An
Italian friend tells me they are almost impossible to find in the summer time
(I’m a teacher and most often travel in the summer) because they melt and cause
quite a mess. She even suggested they
weren’t even made in the summer. What is
it with me and chocolates only available
in the winter?
Alas, Mon Cheri, we were meant to love years ago and allowed
only a few fleeting, clandestine rendez-vous since. A bientot. 
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