As a child, my mother fretted constantly about my waistline and hid sweets from me. In retaliation, I'd scour my dad's Brooks Brothers suit-coat pockets for change and trundle through the woods to Ben's Diner, which had a long, glorious rack of candy. Ben, a big man with a giant stomach encased in a white apron, never questioned my daily haul of candy bars - which were big suckers back then.
I'd sit by the brook with my collie Betsy and eat that candy - Snickers, Milky Way, Baby Ruth, Chunky, 100 Grand Bar, M&Ms, Heath Bar - every day.
My mom, exasperated by my girth, would defend herself to strangers. "It's not my fault," she'd tell people when she thought they were staring at me. "I feed her baked fish and salad with no dressing."
I always wanted to say, "I'm fat, Mom, not deaf. I can hear what you're saying." But I never did.
The point is, I love chocolate, which brings me to the abomination: white chocolate. I realize some people like that creepy colorless confection. I also know that, lately, fancy chocolatiers have been experimenting with it in an effort to make it more hip. Still, the fact that white chocolate includes cocoa butter, which is derived from cocoa beans, does not make the substance chocolate. One needs cocoa solids to make actual chocolate. (Yes, I know the FDA claims white chocolate made to their standards is considered chocolate, but I'm not having it.)
White chocolate was first unveiled in the 1930s, a product of the Nestlé company in Switzerland. The theory goes that the substance was invented to utilize excess cocoa butter, but no one is really sure.
The Maya, who were the first people to cultivate cacao trees, probably would be stupefied to learn that their prized chocolate - the beans of which they used as a form of currency - is now offered in this pale, unrecognizable form.
So give me a dab of white chocolate, if you must, but please ... hold the broccoli.
Here’s a little from my latest women's fiction book. I hope you enjoy it.
A woman flees an abusive husband and finds hope in the wilds of the Arizona desert.
Rebecca Quinn escapes her controlling husband and, with nowhere else to go, hops the red-eye to Arizona. There, Gaby Strand - her aunt’s college roommate - gives her shelter at the Salt River Inn, a 1930’s guesthouse located in the wildly beautiful Tonto National Forest.
Becca struggles with post-traumatic stress, but is enthralled by the splendor and fragility of the Sonoran Desert. The once aspiring artist meets Noah Tanner, a cattle rancher and beekeeper, Oscar Billingsley, a retired psychiatrist and avid birder, and a blacksmith named Walt. Thanks to her new friends and a small band of wild horses, Becca adjusts to life in the desert and rekindles her love of art.
Then, Becca’s husband tracks her down, forcing her to summon all her strength. But can she finally stop running away?
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When she can, Anne indulges in her passions: rock collecting, scuba diving, football refereeing, and playing her guitar.
