Here’s a story about something that occasionally happens at our house after Easter: I come home early from work. The kids are involved in after-school activities or over at a friend’s, and she-who-must-be-obeyed won’t be home until suppertime. The house is quiet. I’m hungry, but not for just any kind of food. Quietly, I get the remnants of my Easter basket out of its hiding place in the cupboard.

It’s chocolate time.

The routine for this experience is well-established and is carried out while standing in the kitchen. First, I break off a piece and put it in my mouth. I let it sit there, on my tongue, for a few seconds. One day it’s dark, bittersweet Lindt chocolate. Another day it’s a Dove truffle egg or a Ghirardelli square. Paradise. I close my eyes, my teeth do their work, and I let the flavor linger as long as possible.

One piece is usually enough, or maybe two. No need to overdo it.

Sometimes I vary the routine slightly, by eating a piece of creamy milk chocolate followed immediately by the same size chunk of exquisite dark chocolate. The segue from the mild flavor of the one to the slightly bitter overtones of the other is sensational. And if the chocolate in the cupboard is more rare, or more expensive — dark chocolate with chili or marzipan — I ration it out much more carefully.

Sometimes I change the routine entirely. For example, savoring chocolate morsels while watching the movies “Chocolat” or “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” enhances the pleasure of both viewing and eating.

Why am I like this? History, maybe. There were few “absolute” rules about household routines as I was growing up, but our respect for them — no matter what they were about — paled in comparison to our respect for the rule about chocolate: If it’s not your own supply, keep your greedy fingers off it. As my mother put it, “Chocolate was not meant to be shared.”

Rules and routines about the eating of chocolate existed because chocolate aroused a greedy passion in our family, particularly with my mother (and, because I take after her, with me). And it was something that was important to be greedy about, because we had connections in Germany that brought in a regular supply of good chocolate from Europe.

Does enforcing this rule today make me selfish? Well, yes … but I’m talking about chocolate here, not potato chips or ice cream. Does somebody need my car or my laptop or even my clothes? Fine, I can easily share those things. But chocolate? Get serious!

Even with this rule, however, experience has taught me it’s wise to maintain a second, public supply of chocolates for the other members of the family and visitors. Distracted by the cheap chocolates in the glass container on the counter, they leave mine alone.

And, yes, I’m also a snob about chocolate. Good chocolate needs to be stored in the cupboard, not in the refrigerator. If the weather is too hot for cupboards, then you’ll just have to make the ultimate sacrifice: Eat it more quickly. And don’t get me started about the vulgar imitations found in those displays at the checkout line of most grocery stores, manufactured in vast quantities at huge factories in New Jersey. They taste like, well, they taste like they were made in huge factories in New Jersey — too much sugar, too many additives. Ick. So it pleases me that some of those fine chocolates we used to get from family are now on the shelves of a few local stores (just don’t ask me which ones — that information is classified).

So if you’re a visitor, and want some chocolate, go for the container on the counter; don’t bother asking for anything else. And don’t assume you can simply take a piece if you find any after rummaging through the cupboards, either. This is not a finders keepers or possession is nine-tenths of the law situation. My claim on my Easter chocolate (ditto Christmas and Valentine’s Day) is absolute. I’m not trying to be rude, and it’s not because I don’t like you (although if you eat despite my warnings, you become my enemy). I’m going to eat my chocolate even if I have to pry it from your cold dead fingers.

Albert Lea resident David Rask Behling teaches at Waldorf College in Forest City, Iowa, and lives with his wife and children in Albert Lea. His column appears every other Tuesday.