I do not like chocolate.

Wednesday, September 12, 2001

I do not like chocolate. It doesn’t make me ill. The mere thought of it doesn’t disgust me. I just don’t like the taste of chocolate. Okay, okay, that is not entirely true. I like chocolate chip cookies, especially when they are soft and warm fresh from the oven. And certain types of nuts-pecans, peanuts, almonds, walnuts -&160;covered with a thin layer of chocolate are certainly edible. But I do not like most forms of chocolate. Chocolate cake -&160;yuck. Fudge -&160;ick. Chocolate ice cream – ish. Brownies – ack.

Candy bars -&160;blech. The worst candy bar ever made would have to be a monstrosity called &uot;Milky Way.&uot; I worked at the State Fair, Minnesota’s Great Get-Together, this year. People there were enjoying (or at least pretending to enjoy) something called a deep-fried candy bar on a stick. I don’t think a deep-fried Milky Way would be bad enough for a person. I hope they find a way to inject nicotine and alcohol into their product so the customer could get all the daily requirements of things that are bad for you on just one stick.

Chocolate milk -&160;not worth drinking. Chocolate flavored breakfast cereal -&160;oh, please. Boxes of assorted chocolates – lead to boxes of assorted indigestion remedies. Chocolate pudding -&160;chocolate pudding isn’t even food. In school, we were given chocolate pudding as part of our nearly hot lunch program. The chocolate pudding came in a little square that fit perfectly into one of the little squares on our school lunch trays. Our lunch trays had a number of little dividers in them because the people in charge of our school’s lunch program had realized that kids do not like one kind of their food touching another kind. Oh, we knew that it all got mixed together in our stomachs, but we needed to get it by our taste buds first. Taste buds can be very fussy. That meant no touching of one food by another.

I could shake the chocolate pudding out of my plate and let it fall to the floor. It would maintain its shape. I used some of it to repair the holes in my rubber boots. It was much better than the vulcanized patches.

Chocolate pie should be outlawed for the sake of all humanity.

When I was about 8 years old, my mother -&160;who loved chocolate – became concerned about my lack of compassion toward chocolate. She thought this character flaw was of a severe enough nature that she decided to seek medical advice. She took me to Doctor George Olds in New Richland, Minnesota. She assured me that she was doing this for my own good. Parents are always doing things for a kid’s own good. As a kid, I thought it would be a good idea if they stopped doing things for my own good. The things done for my own good seldom seemed like good things to me.

Into Doc Olds’ office we went. Doc Olds was a great guy and delivered most of the kids in my school class, including me. Doc Olds was well respected by all. I liked Doc Olds. I liked seeing him in a restaurant or in church or most anywhere else except in his office. Doc could be a scary guy when he was doling out painful shots or vile-tasting medicines. I figured that Doc Olds did these things because he was a parent and was just doing them for my own good.

&uot;What seems to be the problem?&uot; asked Doc Olds. It was the way he howdied.

&uot;Allen refuses to eat any chocolate,&uot; replied my mother. Mothers have a tendency to answer more than their share of questions. &uot;It worries me. That’s just not normal for a child. He trades any chocolate I give him to the neighbor kids for baseball cards or marbles.&uot; I have since lost most of my marbles.

&uot;Let me talk to him,&uot; advised Doc Olds. Doc sat me down on the examining table and gave me a good looking at. It was one of those looks that makes a boy nervous. Even the best behaved child has a guilty conscience. &uot;Do you like chocolate, Allen?&uot; Doc asked me.

&uot;Can’t stand the stuff,&uot; I answered.

Doc turned his attention to my mother. &uot;There it is, Lucille. He just doesn’t like chocolate. Don’t give him any and everything will be fine.&uot;

And it was. My mother stopped giving me chocolate. Mom had accepted a simple solution, even though she desired a complicated one. She never did give up trying to get me to drink coffee though.

Hartland resident Al Batt writes columns for the Wednesday and Sunday editions of the Tribune.