Hooked

It’s my dad’s fault: When my younger brother John and I were kids he decided rom time to time to keep a bag of chocolate covered peanuts in the fridge. When doing so, he made it clear to us that those little gems belonged to him and we were to keep our hands off. So that meant we had to sneak them.

But we had to be careful. No opening the bag from scratch. We had to wait for Dad to do that. But once he did: game on.

It was usually a pretty good-sized bag, so I surmised that two or three or even four nuggets at a time were unlikely to be missed. Thus, early on, Dad was probably amazed at how many peanuts he was pounding down in a week, which, in the beginning, was about how long the bag lasted. And then, one week, the bag was nearly depleted by Thursday. And then, the next week it almost empty by Wednesday.

Eventually, Dad put two-and-two together and John and I found ourselves called on the carpet. We, of course, denied absconding with his candy and teased him about his chocolate/peanut habit: “Dad, how can you eat a whole bag in five days?” which, of course, is exactly what he was thinking. We then proceeded to continue snitching from it, making sure we never, ever took the last ten or so. That would have been a dead-giveaway (not that it mattered by that point).

But, in any event, it was too late for me. I was hooked.

The sharing of that story was inspired by my recent craving for a Mr. Goodbar. (In case you didn’t know, a Mr. Goodbar is a milk chocolate candy bar jam-packed with peanuts.) That craving was likely triggered by my sudden realization, for some unknown reason, that I didn’t have one. But I also knew that if I did have one I might not eat it right away. But I would know it was there. Just in case, you know, I needed one.

After obsessing on this for a bit, I finally gave up on “just say no” and headed for the nearest quickie mart. But all they had were those huge, half-pounders (let’s not get crazy). Rats. So, I drove on to Publix: they didn’t have any at all! Gah! Next: stop for some gas and head for Winn-Dixie, fingers crossed.

Aha, finally, in one of the checkout lanes. At $1.19 apiece. Plus, tax. Jeez, one would think there would be a black market for these things.

I scored four and polished off one as soon as I got home. I stuck the other three in the fridge, where they have remained for the past couple of days. I don’t really need one right now. But I know they are in there. Just in case.