The first time was luscious, delicate, dreamy, and one of the defining moments of my life. If you think I’m talking about sex, then you’d be wrong. The exquisite experience that changed my life was the first time I tasted a chocolate éclair. You can laugh, but I remember it vividly, the soft, lush custard encased in a thin pastry shell, generously smothered with rich, dark chocolate. I was in ecstasy. I was twelve years old at the time. My parents had just gotten divorced. I was failing gym. I wore braces. The kids at school made fun of my freckles and red hair. But all of these problems faded away in the distance the moment I tasted this heavenly dessert.
After that, I was a lost cause. I would go to the local bakery everyday after school. I would watch with wide-eyed enthusiasm when the bake shop girl put out the new pastries. I loved everything about it – the fragrant scent of cinnamon and nutmeg, the scattering of icing sugar on the marble counter, the desserts that glistened like jewels in the glass case. I couldn’t get enough. I had to try everything: the honey dipped crullers, the decadent chocolate croissants, the glazed fruit tartlets, anything and everything. If it was covered with chocolate, rolled in toasted coconut, or oozing with caramel, then I had to have it inside of me. I was insatiable. Inevitably, I packed on the pounds, but I didn’t care. I had found my first love: sweets.
Needless to say, to my mother, a certifiable health nut and manager of the most popular women-only gyms in the city, a woman who considers store-bought granola bars as junk food, my expanding waistline was a cause of concern. I distinctly remember her saying, “Candy, no man is going to date you if you keep getting so F-A-T.” She spelled out the dreaded f-word, as if saying it aloud were a crime against nature. Even now that I’m older, and have lost most of my extra weight (I still sport a muffin top when I squeeze myself into skinny jeans), my mother still expresses her concerns, except now it’s “Candy, no man is going to marry you if all you think about is food.” She’s not the only person who has said this to me either. It seems as soon as I turned thirty my friends and family immediately became obsessed with finding me a man.
My dad thinks I lack taste in my choice of men. To say it bluntly, he thinks I date losers. It might sound harsh, but he’s kind of right. I’ll be the first to admit it; I’ve dated my fair share of duds, meatheads, bozos, couch potatoes, peabrains, sops, and schmucks. But I thought it was just bad luck, not bad taste. You see, I can’t have bad taste . . . I’m a food critic! My whole career revolves around the idea that I have great taste. It’s taken a while for me to come to terms with this situation. But I’ve finally admitted to myself: when it comes to food, my taste is impeccable; but with men, I have no taste, zero, zilch. I am completely lacking in any discernible talent or skill in finding a suitable partner. Most of the time, I usually just end up with whatever guy ends up on my plate.
I think both my parents just want me to settle down and be happy. But of all people, they should realize that for a partnership to work you’ve got to find the right balance. It’s just like cooking, you can’t have a dish be too sweet or too sour, too bitter or too tart. For a true partnership to work, all the ingredients have to blend in perfect balance, so that one flavour doesn’t dominate the rest. And I’ve got to say, I’ve got a bold flavour, too much for some men. I’m like cilantro: you either like me or you don’t. I am outspoken, ambitious, headstrong and as sharp as a Henckel’s blade. But don’t get me wrong, I’ve got a sweet side too. It’s just subtle, understated like the floral notes of a fine wine. My problem with dating is that I haven’t yet found that man who can balance my flavour, the sweet to my sour, the salt to my pepper, the carrot to my peas . . . well, you get the idea.
When I was younger I went after men who are sweethearts, or at least, that’s the impression that they’d give. They were usually romantic types, the kind that hold the door open for you, buy you chocolates on Valentines day, call you when they’re going to be late, wear a tie on a first date and generally, are as dry and predictable as a piece of toast. This is not to say that they were bad people, not at all; sometimes toast can really hit the spot. But I guess over the years my palette has changed, I’ve moved on from toast . . . now, I’m looking for a more sophisticated and developed flavour. I’m more of a Crostini girl now. Crostini is never boring. The variations are endless and yet it’s a simple dish: grilled bread rubbed with fresh garlic and topped with the best olive oil. But that’s just for starters. Add tomatoes, add basil, add cured meats, add pretty much anything you can imagine. Right now, I make a delicious version topped with blue cheese, pear and maple-glazed walnuts. It’s delish!
I should explain that for a long time my fixation was solely focused on sweets and nothing else, but like my taste in men, my interest in food changed when I was in my early twenties. I can actually pinpoint the moment when I lost my sweet tooth, a sad day for bakeries across the entire city. I’ll never forget it because it was right around my other first time. Now I really am talking about sex. Unfortunately, it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as the chocolate éclair. I had just turned twenty years old, about twenty-five pounds overweight, with a terrible hair cut, but I had a sweet, loving boyfriend, who didn’t seem to mind. His name was Neil Bloomgarten, a fellow member of the chubbie club. We bonded over our shared love of all things deep-fried and covered with sugar. Needless to say, doughnuts were our favourite. We must have tried every doughnut in the city, at least once, sometimes by dozen. We were in heaven during the summer when the mini doughnut carts appeared: those cinnamon sugar coated, piping hot, little bites of pure goodness. Oh, and then there were the maple-dipped doughnuts from our local coffee shop that we’d gorge ourselves on. I still get goose bumps thinking about my sweet memories with Neil. We had been best friends all through high school, but had never crossed the line into romantic involvement. I don’t know if it was the maturing of our growling appetites, but all of a sudden, a romance bloomed. One day, out of the blue, Neil made known his romantic feelings for me by kissing the sugar off my lips after I had just bitten into a jam buster. Then just like that, after years of being just friends, Neil and I began dating. We took it slowly at first. I didn’t want to rush things. Then about six months into dating, things took a sour turn. As a friend, he had always been as warm and comforting as homemade cinnamon buns, fresh from the oven, but as a boyfriend, I began to find his kindness and sensitivity almost sickeningly sweet. He’d write me love poetry, leave cutsy notes in my purse, text me throughout the day with sappy messages: Miss U; Luv U; Thinking of U. He was like a walking, talking candy heart! I didn’t think that I could ever get sick of sweet things, but it all became too much. His neediness and constant attention were overwhelming. I was torn. I loved him so much as a friend, but as a boyfriend, his sweetness became cloying and intolerable.
He was my first. On a sugar high from homemade Castilian hot chocolate and churros, we decided that we were going to have sex. It was the first time for both us. Sex on a sugar high might sound like a good idea, but the reality was more like getting humped by the Trix rabbit. It gets worse. Afterwards, in bed, he nuzzled himself up to me and whimpered, “CandyCandyCandy . . . I love you so much, . . . From the first second that we met, I always knew we’d end up together. You’re my honey bunny, and I’m your sweetie pie. I’ll always love you. I want you to move in with me. I want to marry you.”
I didn’t know what to say. I was in complete sugar shock from his syrupy sentimentalism, and still reeling from the underwhelming sex. Plus, I had plans of my own to think about. I was going to start culinary school in the fall. I was so excited to get out on my own, to experience new things and meet new people that I knew I was going to have to say ‘No’ to Neil’s proposal. I ended up stammering out something about getting up early in the morning, and tried to slip out from his smothering grip. It was at that point that I knew what I had to do. I had to give up the sweet stuff, cold turkey. I had to break it off with Neil, even though I knew it would break his heart.
Breaking up with Neil was like pulling teeth, but I guess that’s what you get for indulging your sweet tooth for so long. I tried to explain to him that we were better off as friends, but he didn’t take this news well. In other words, he broke like hard candy. Things went from sweet to sour in an instant. He wouldn’t return my phone calls or emails. He ignored all my attempts to contact him. He even refused to meet me for our old favorite, coffee and doughnuts. We stopped talking altogether. From there, it was a slippery slope towards bitterness. The last thing I wanted was for our relationship to end with Neil resenting me. But, it was too late. I lost my sweet heart. It’s been ten years, and I haven’t heard from or seen him since.
Even though our relationship ended in sour grapes, I have never regretted my experience of dating Neil. He was my first love, and I’ll always have warm feelings for my one-time sweetie pie. But even I had reached my limit; I could take no more of his saccharine messages and his neediness, not to mention the fact that my weight had ballooned in time that we were together. Breaking up with Neil was my detox diet. I was twenty, enrolled in culinary school, and ready to get my love life back in shape.
That’s not to say that I never indulge my sweet tooth anymore. It’s just one’s taste changes over the years, not only with food, but with men too. I still love sweet things and sweet men, but there’s got to be an edge, a complexity, or else things grow stale. My memories of Neil are like my memories of that first chocolate éclair, some things are meant to be bittersweet. Crostini Recipe
Ingredients:
1 loaf of bread (I used a nice, crusty baguette)
1 clove of garlic
1/2 cup crumbled blue cheese
1/2 cup pecans
1 Tbsp. maple syrup
1 ripe pear, cored and sliced thinly
Preparation:
Slice the bread into even slice, on the diagonal. Toast the slices by placing them under the broiler, or in the toaster. Rub each slice of bread with garlic. Top each piece of toast with the pear, then sprinkle with blue cheese. Broil the crostini for 3-4 minutes or until the cheese melts and begins to brown. Garnish with maple-glazed walnuts.
For maple-glazed walnuts:
In a bowl, add maple syrup to the pecans and stir to coat evenly. Spread pecans on a lined cookie sheet and cook at 350 degrees, or until caramelized, around 8-10 minutes. Allow to cool slightly before eatingCastillian Hot Chocolate
Ingredients:
1/2 cup cocoa ( I use Bernard Callebaut brand)
1 cup sugar
3 Tbsp. cornstarch
1/2 cup water
4 cups milk
In a medium-size saucepan, stir together the cocoa and sugar. Dissolve the cornstarch in the water. Add the cornstarch-water mixture into the saucepan until all the ingredients blend into a smooth paste.
Heat mixture on medium-low heat and stir in the milk with a whisk. Continue whisking the mixture until it starts to bubble.
Allow the hot chocolate to simmer for 8-10 minutes, stirring often so that it does not burn. It’s ready when the hot chocolate is thick and smooth.
Serve hot in a mug of specialty coffee glass. Garnish with whipped cream and a cinnamon stick.
Serves 4-6
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