We've found the cure for chocoholism

Too. Much. Chocolate.
Toronto, ON
December 2012
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When I was a munchkin, my aunt, as relatives often do, would bring us Toblerone bars. Never anything else: only these delightful triangular-cross-sectioned ones that you couldn't find in a regular store.

If my fuzzy childhood memory isn't betraying me, her family was once involved in the company, so I'm guessing she may have had a guest room in her house dedicated to warehousing a lifetime's worth of them.

The funny thing is they were never the small bars that eventually started showing up in tony Great White North department stores. No, those weren't good enough. So instead she'd drop these ginormous hunks of Eurochocolatey deliciousness in our hot little hands. And just as quickly we'd disappear into our rooms before our parents got wind of it and ordered us to wrap them up and pace ourselves for the next three months.

Inevitably mom and dad figured it out and we'd emerge, faces and hands covered with the evidence, and head straight to the kitchen where our aunt was waiting, big smile on her face. She'd help us carefully wrap and label each one before we all continued doing the cherished things extended families do when they get together.

This recurring experience convinced me for years that Toblerone bars came only in enough-for-an-army size, and when the tiny-sized ones eventually came to town, I steered clear, feeling sorry for anyone who didn't have an aunt like mine.

The thing is, we would have hugged her just as tightly even if she hadn't brought the chocolate bars. She was just that kind of person. Which is why when I came across this massive bar on a colleague's desk, I smiled not because it was a lovely example of the vanishing art of chocolate-making, but because it made me think of her, and those long lost Sunday afternoons when our house was full and life was sweet.

Your turn: your favorite food from childhood was...?