Life is like a box of chocolates...moldy

Food can be dangerous, especially if you love it as much as I do. Although my mother is an excellent cook, it still amazes me that both of my parents somehow have stomachs made of iron, and tongues that must be devoid of taste buds. I’ve seen them eat food that contains jell-o and meat and cuisine that smells like feet. They both keep food beyond its expiration date and insist that it’s still good enough to eat. I blame their impaired judgment on the fact that they grew up in an impoverished country after the war, but should that really be an excuse? My parents have always been pretty thrifty. My mother always attempts to re-gift items, which is why she holds onto boxes of chocolates, lotions and candles for decades. Yes, decades. It should be noted that chocolates also happen to be my kryptonite, especially chocolates with sweet chewy caramel. Whenever I’m presented with chocolates and caramel, my mind goes blank, my mouth waters and all logic goes out the window.

It just so happens that a few years ago, I went to visit my parents during my winter holiday from school. Both of my parents were out shopping for the day, and I stayed home to catch up on some reading. It was the perfect day. I wrapped myself in my blue snuggie, plopped onto the couch, cracked open a good book and that’s when I noticed an entire box of chocolates on the coffee table. It was still wrapped up in plastic. The box had big gold letters that said: “CARAMEL CHOCOLATES.” Yum. My day was getting better by the minute. I couldn’t believe my luck.

I got up from my comfy spot and scooted over to the box in order to attack my prey. This is where I should have stopped to let my brain do some thinking, but my mouth was salivating and there was no stopping me, despite the following warning signals: the box had a slight 1980’s look about it and there was an odd odor wafting from the box…kind of like shoe polish. I decided to ignore all proper warnings. I savagely tore off the plastic. I opened the box and saw a dozen or so chocolate caramels waiting for me.

Again, some screaming red flags should have stopped me, but I was beyond reason as this point. You see, the chocolates not only smelled like shoe polish, but upon closer inspection, they were also slightly melted. I decided to chalk this up to the house being too warm. My parents don’t normally crank the heat, so I wasn’t too sure why I accepted this reasoning, but my mind was making all kinds of excuses for the poor state of these chocolates. Come to think of it, there were even more red flags, such as the family photographs on the coffee table, which means that my mother had been cleaning out the cabinet below the television. This cabinet is where miscellaneous items go to die, such my brother’s 8-track player and my mother’s collection of porcelain figurines that resemble hobos, but I digress.

Despite all of the warnings, I decided to go right ahead and eat a chocolate. No one even dared me to do it! I was like Winnie-the-Pooh, dipping his paw into a vat of honey, only to realize that a bunch of bees were waiting at the bottom. My expectation of bliss soon turned into disgusted remorse. I fled into the kitchen and scrambled for the trash can. There are no words to convey the pure awfulness of this piece of chocolate. In fact, I don’t even think it deserves the name! I imagine that this is what a cross between cat toes and rotted cabbage must taste like. As I gagged and spit out the chocolate into the basket, my mind couldn’t comprehend what had just happened. I tore through the refrigerator and ate and drank everything in sight in order to eradicate the flavor of this moldy chocolate. An hour later, I had finished off the leftover pizza, a carton of orange juice and several apples, but nothing could get rid of the oily taste in my mouth. I went back into the living room, attempted to get comfortable, but then I saw the box of chocolates and my stomach lurched. It was time to get rid of them. As I picked up the box and placed the cover back on it, I noticed a bit of tiny print, which read: © 1985. No, it couldn’t be! It just couldn’t be! Yes, folks, I had just tasted chocolate that was over 20 years old! I threw the box out in disgust. I couldn’t believe that my parents had held onto it for so long.

Later on that night, to my absolute horror, I found the box on the kitchen counter. I figured that there must be some sort of ghost in the house with a ridiculous sense of humor (of course, that’s the logical explanation), but no, my mother had fished it out of the trash. I confronted her and told her about my gruesome experience with these chocolates. She insisted that they were still good and kept them. I leave you to come up with your own conclusions at this point.

I need a Snickers.