Hello, my name is Ashley and I'm a chocoholic.
My dad gave me half of his Hershey bar when I was barely old enough to eat jarred mush. My mom once picked me up from Kindergarten with an unopened pack of M&Ms in her winter coat pocket, and the first words out of my mouth when I closed the car door were, "I smell chocolate." I can tell the difference between brands of chocolate used in homemade ice cream (FYI: the Valrhona was better than the Ghirardelli). My husband makes me brownies when I'm having a bad week - and he knows not to eat more than one. The rest of the pan is mine. I'm ashamed to admit that I have eaten an entire devil's food cake on more than one occasion. I can honestly not remember the last time I went an entire day without chocolate in some form or another.
So the other day, after Monsoon played the pretty funny joke on me, I was going to need a quick choco-fix or I was going to lose my cool. I ran to the cupboard, knowing all I had were a couple measly bags of chocolate chips. I had to reach up to get them, but when they came down, something else - something bigger - fell on my head.
It was the biggest bag of M&Ms I've ever seen, a parting gift from a coworker before we moved, and I had completely forgotten about them. It was like they were glowing under the florescent light above the kitchen sink and I could almost hear angels singing on high as I stared down at the unopened bag. Of course the boy walked in before I could regain my composure (or hide them), so I poured us a bowl and we played Rummy while we snacked.
After a while, he said, "There's only one left, Mommy. Do you want it? Or can I have it?"
"Monsoon, there are 4 M&Ms left in that bowl."
He looked at me like I was an idiot, rolled his eyes and said, "Yeah. I eat them four at a time."
Apparently this addiction is genetic.
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