What a friend I have in goliard. She is true-blue, stalwart, a bit of all right and a pearl of a girl. I had mentioned to her, in passing, that the much-vaunted chocolate orgasm I was planning to have last weekend never came to pass. Lest you start wondering just what I get up to on the weekends, let me assure you that the c.o. is a totally innocent endeavor involving a pilgrimage to Bomboy’s Candy in Havre de Grace, MD. Havre de Grace is a sweetheart of a town in Harford County, on the western shore of the Chesapeake Bay, one of the prettiest spots in the world. My paternal parents (dad and stepmom) live in Havre de Grace, where they just bought a splendid new house, and last weekend I went to their housewarming party. Since I am a Girl Scout by nature, I spent the weekend playing bakerina, or, more accurately, caterina, grilling chicken, keeping plates of horse doovers nice and full, opening wine bottles, directing people to the deck/restrooms/cooler where the ice is kept, and making pleasant conversation with 60 of my folks’ closest friends. Unfortunately, this left no time for going to Bomboy’s. Oh, well, I thought, there’s always Father’s Day weekend.
Father’s Day, nuthin’. Guess what my friendly UPS guy brought me yesterday, nestled in packing peanuts, wrapped snugly in a crisp white set box with gold hot stamping. I think I actually hummed as I opened the box. Bomboy’s caramels are as close to perfect as you will ever have in your life, but my favorite is the “sponge”, or honeycomb toffee. When you bite into it, you can see that the toffee forms a grid, candy and air in a crosshatch pattern. I’m still trying to figure out how they do this, but I never get very far because I get too distracted by that lovely toffee and that fine chocolate melting between tongue and palate. Even the nut clusters, normally the wallflowers of the chocolate box, are terrific, thanks to the spanking-fresh nuts Bomboy’s always uses. And I’m still kicking myself for turning over the chocolate-covered marshmallow to Lloyd so quickly. I was never a fan of those “jet-puffed” marshmallows that Kraft sells in big bags, so I always eschew the marshmallows in any set. This time, though, Lloyd bit into it and said, “oh, this tastes really fresh.” It was better than fresh. It was homemade. If you have only had those Kraft marshmallows, you are in for a treat when you first try the real thing. A small-batch marshmallow is less gummy, softer, less sweet, more buttery (even though butter is not used in their preparation). Damn. Next time I’ll know better.
I was going to rabbit on a little more about what a mood elevator chocolate is; about how I woke up this morning with a nasty cough, the latest iteration of the viral cloud that’s been hovering around here for the past six weeks; how I decided to heat up a little maple syrup for our waffles and, in a moment of distraction, let it overboil and could only watch in dismay as syrup cascaded over the pan; how despite all this I was happy because I had my Bomboy’s choc, but that would be wrong, wrong, wrong. I was happy because there is a silly girl in my life, and she, dear friends, is a mood elevator.
A postscript: As if the chocolates were not enough, she also sent me a link to the quiz below. I really can’t say I’m surprised by the results, although you will have to decide for yourself if I’m a goth, a satanist or a Mormon. 
Which Enemy of the Christian Church Are You?
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