Sunday, December 20, 2009

I had important thoughts on the psychology of the Edwardian era, I promise. I was going to talk about this amazing miniseries that I just watched, even though it's like eight years old at this point but whatever, it's British, they've pretty much been the same since 1066. (Colleen: London burned. Once.) But then my dad made these amazing chocolate truffles? I don't know, they're little chocolate balls rolled in coconut and I WANT TO HAVE THEIR BABIES.

It's a family recipe. One that he refuses to write down, despite my constant shouting, "You're not going to live forever and once I get through being mad at your for not throwing out all your stuff before you selfishly died I'm going to be mad at you BECAUSE I HAVE NO CHOCOLATE," at him.

He makes them every Christmas. I don't know if it's that I tend to eat healthier or what, but this year I have made a dent in them with embarrassing swiftness. (Like, they're not even fully hardened yet.) I didn't even waste time with a plate- just the Tupperware container they were in was fine. He kind of looked at me and went, um, maybe we could have some left for Christmas? And I replied that he could either make another batch or go to Trader Joe's and buy new candy for all I care because THESE ARE MINE DO YOU HEAR ME?

Or at least I would have. If my mouth hadn't have been full.

Whatever. I'm thin now; it's not that sad.

(Okay. It is. A little.)