I enjoy making hot chocolate. Ironically, I can’t drink it, as I’ve developed a myriad of late onset allergies, but it’s incredibly satisfying to whip up in the winter for the family, and always brings at least three levels of happiness.
First the audible “Oh!”- eyebrows raised in happy surprise,
then the reach with both hands to take the warm mug,
then the closed-eyes smile as marshmallow steam rises to the nose. Mmmm. Then hopefully it tastes good as well.
I don’t have a secret to my recipe, but if I did it would either be the touch of vanilla extract or the maple syrup instead of cane sugar. Or the melted dark chocolate pieces. Or the cardamom. Which is also ironic, because growing up our traditional family recipe was provided by my yodeling aunt, Swiss Miss™, who was nice enough to provide pre-packaged individual servings.
My mother loves chocolate, and was never really satisfied with the store bought pre-mixes. She would toss a few chocolate chips or a spoonful of brown sugar - make certain the marshmallows were fresh and plentiful. Hot chocolate was a cup of luxury in our tiny little apartment - never failing to make us feel special, and slightly fancy.
As a midwestern student at an Eastern college, I often felt that my life experience was a bit plain when compared to that of my more photogenic classmates from larger cities - in particular the kids from California, a land I had only seen on film. These were fit and tawny folk, who always seemed a bit windswept, even when indoors.
As a junior, I was lucky enough to be housed in the special counselor’s space located on the freshman campus, where dormitories framed a full city block with a gigantic green in the middle. There was one apartment for men and one for women: we were supposed to attempt to perform the role of “rational guiding force” to the younger kids. Many of my roommates took this directly to heart, offering advice, holding back hair, and listening to tales of woe and adventure.
But on November 18, 1986 it was my turn. About 3PM the skies grew dark, then darker, and then it began to snow.
I was right by the windows in our common room, studying on the couch. I looked up from the textbook I was reading and thought “Snow.” I knew I had work boots from K-Mart that almost fit (as long as I wore two pair of socks) and a long blue wool coat I’d bought for $10 at a SOHO thrift store. I started reading again when the yelling started.
One by one, kids were running outside to the middle of the green. They seemed to have no clear destination, just… outside: running in random patterns like untethered electrons. “Whee!” they yelled. “Look!” they exclaimed.
I watched them from the window. First there were five, then twenty, then when the number grew to about eighty or so I noticed that most of those participating were decidedly tawny. And wearing shorts. And well fitting white t-shirts. Some of the young men were not wearing shoes of any kind. These students, from hometowns with beaches, had never seen snow before.
And they were frolicking. That’s the only verb capable of describing it.
The snow intensified quickly, it coated the ground completely - some of the kids made impromptu snowballs and attempted to fling them at each other. A few of my roommates saw the fun and ran out to join them. Someone placed the speakers from their stereo to face out of their window and played “Let It Snow”.
I plugged in my electric teakettle.
In fact, I plugged in all of our electric teakettles. It was on the “suggested items for students” list - so every parent had provided their child with one.
Downstairs the glee continued.
I found all paper cups left over from our makeshift Halloween party.
And just as the water began to boil, down on the green, the tallest and most strapping of my West Coast freshman colleagues yelled out,
“Hey!” Then, in a bit of a panic, “It’s COLD!!!!”
And that’s when I opened my Value Sized Box of hot cocoa packets, distributing half an envelope of powder to each cup, and poured in the water. I ended up with about 18 servings: put them on a tray, and after putting on my coat, brought them down to our entryway.
Gratitude. Oh, eyebrows were well-raised, and frozen hands reached quite impressively, and blissful smiles were all about, but my favorite reaction was from the giant football player fellow wearing no shoes who had shortly before discovered what “temperature” actually was.
“What is this?” he asked me, chattering excitedly.
“It’s hot chocolate!” I told him. He took a sip.
“This is INCREDIBLE! Did YOU make this?”
“Yeah.” Watching all the slightly blue faces thaw in the heat of their beverages, I was actually quite proud of my work.
He was very impressed. “How did you think of this?”
“Oh. Dude. I didn’t INVENT it… it’s a thing.”
He stared blankly at me for a second.
“I’m from the midwest.”
“OH!” he replied, as if that actually explained anything.
Later, heading out to dinner, those same kids put on the “winter coats” their parents had bought for them in California and Texas. Stylish, distinctly beautiful and elegant, they each proved entirely useless below 50 degrees Fahrenheit.
That weekend most of those same kids ended up going into Manhattan to pick up a thrift store wool coat for $10.
For all my love of the beverage, I am no longer the family’s official hot chocolatier - that title now belongs to my daughter, who has even created a hot non-dairy allergen-free drink for me.
Now it’s my turn to be grateful, my “OH!” and outstretched hands and cozy smile, because a hot beverage in the depths of winter will always be a special thing, and still makes me feel kind of fancy.
