Dear Chocolate Pie,
Every Thanksgiving and Christmas you and I collide in a big way. I eagerly wait for the day that I will be standing in the Jello isle of my local grocery store buying a box of chocolate pudding. And oh that graham cracker crust...
I lovingly blend whole milk with that heavenly chocolate powder and try my hardest to make sure that each drop of pudding is poured into the crust. Sadly, a spoonful or two will never make it, having been devoured by my impatient stomach.
I seal the lid on top of you and place you gently into the refridgerator. And then I wait.
The holiday continues as planned... Family, friends, food. I eat way too many rolls and more than my share of mashed potatos and gravy, but the whole time I have you in the back of my mind. I cannot wait until everyone around me has had their share of dinner and I hate the waiting period where everyone looks like giant slugs tossed around the living room. I cannot wait until I hear someone say, "Should we have some pie now?"
I hop from my comfy position on the couch and I am at the fridge in a flash! I carefully pull you from your cold safe haven and pry the lid that protects you from my serving utensil. I strategicly slice you, always giving myself a larger portion than everyone else, and add a dolop of whipped cream.
Heaven. Chocolate pudding pie, you are my most hated love. You taste perfect each and every bite. So perfect that I need to have yet another helping.
It doesn't end there. The next morning I sleepily saunter into the kitchen. I know that I should have some cereal, maybe eggs. However, the second I open the fridge, there you are. Staring at me. Pleading me to put you out of your half-eaten misery. How could I say no to something that I care so deeply for?
Just like that dessert becomes breakfast.
Four days later I still have you on my mind. And my waist. For this, I hate you. You have hurt me and my figure. I wish I could say that I won't let you get the best of me again, but we both know that we cannot get enough of each other.
Missing you until Christmas,
Tonja
