Burnt Chocolate Stories

I've been thinking about my Dad a lot lately. He was a quiet, gentle soul. In fact I never heard him raise his voice to me or anyone else. If he was stressed about anything, he became very quiet. I'm sure there were things that angered him; I just never knew what that might be. Most of all, he was kindness personified. When I was a very little girl, maybe six or seven, I would crawl between him and the back cushions on the couch where we would nap together or listen to the radio. It was a place of safety and comfort for me. Whereas some of my friends were challenged by their fathers to get better grades and motivated to be the best in their career choice, my dad was satisfied with me as I was, am, would become.  Sometimes I wish he had dangled that carrot of accomplishment in front of my nose, pushed me harder, demanded more from his youngest daughter. I suppose being the only man in a houseful of women has a dampening effect on ambition. The fact is, I really didn't know h...

The mantra I woke up to this morning was, "If all else fails, start a war!" So Trump is now bombing Iran, even though peaceful discussions were underway which would have, most likely, led to a positive, peaceful conclusion. I find myself needing to turn the page, to look away, to stop focusing on the destruction surrounding us, and look to a better day. So I'd like to write about the last fifth of life, the years between the 80th birthday and the 100th. That's where I am at 82. I feel those years when I wake up in the morning and my neck and legs feel achy as I hobble into the bathroom. But then the day begins and I look forward to my coffee and raisin toast. And the New York Times games. And Lumosity, to see if my brain has slipped or has gained some traction. And then I decide how I'm going to pay for the air I breathe. It's a belief that each day is a gift and we need to pay for it by contributing something positive to our community and our family. I inheri...

 I created Burnt Chocolate over twenty years ago, shortly after our son Ben was diagnosed with ALS. After my first few posts Ben asked, "Don't you want to write about anything else?" I did actually, but I was consumed with his illness, worried for his future and felt ill equipped to handle this devastation. I forced myself to write about my children, grandchildren, interests, travel, but ALS often crept in unannounced to my commentary. That's how I feel today. I wake up and the first thing I do is read Heather Cox Richardson's essay and become consumed with the battering our country is taking. Then I read my neighbor, Vicky Shufton's post, and feel unhinged. My worries do nothing to change the situation. I've joined the protestors, written postcards but feel powerless. Blaming every issue on immigrants has become the scapegoat of the current administration. These are good people seeking a better way of life for themselves and their children. But they shoul...