Sweet Tooth

There is probably no other household wherein more sugar is consumed than my own. This is because my husband has a sweet tooth - that runs a business of its own. Nay, it installed itself on a throne and reigned for forty-seven years. I am chief facilitator, and chocolate is the coin of the realm.

As a young bride, I learned to keep a well-stocked cabinet of treats for my liege lord: candy bars, sour candies, pecan logs, brittles, cookies. You name it. But just as the English referred to all dessert as "pudding", Allen refers to all dessert as "chocolate". As in, "Now that dinner's done, it's time for chocolate." He eats all varieties of sweets, really; but when the cocoa's runnin' low, he'll let you know. (I just made up that rhyme in case you missed it.) And all of it was kept in a treasury we called "the snack cabinet".

I raised my children in this kingdom of sucrose. They were my little sugar flowers; their faces turned toward the snack cabinet as if t'were the sun. They knew their own favorites were housed there, just waiting for a meal to be gotten through. But though Allen never gained a pound, the rest of us struggled, watching with jealous fascination as he ate unbelievable amounts of candy.

Once, Luke impersonated Allen getting his popsicle fix by strolling nonchalantly to the den with fifteen plastic popsicle cylinders.....topped with a brownie. And poor Ben thought even breakfast should end with dessert. (I think it did.) It is enough to say that God formed Allie's DNA from the same beaker He used for Allen's (tooth). She is sure to succeed the throne.

I learned over the years that the mothers of my acquaintance did not appreciate the existence of such a cabinet in my house. Because their children, when staying over, were allowed the same access to it as my own. Most all my friends run healthy establishments, stocking their pantries with whole grain wheat stuff and unbleached things and milk skimmed (of all its goodness), and no stacks of butter, bought on sale, lining the freezer shelves.

So, I am always the quiet one when ladies' groups discuss the disintegrating wholesomeness of society's victuals, eyeing me surreptitiously because everyone of them has dropped off a child at my house for the weekend. But, in my own defense, it was only for parties and backyard campouts that I went completely overboard, providing a smorgasbord of delights in order to please all palettes.

And if John Gluzscek hadn't let the cat out of the bag by throwing up twelve Kit Kat bars, I might have some semblance of a reputation to my name.