As a little kid, I spent a lot of time at my grandparents house. We lived with them for a while, when my parents were trying to find a new house. My grandmother, like many others I imagine, was a big fan of baking. Cookies, cakes, brownies, there was rarely a day that went by without the smell of something delicious wafting upstairs. I always liked to join her down in the kitchen. She usually tried to make me go out into the yard and play, because, being a traditionalist, she felt that little boys shouldn’t be baking. She relented eventually, obviously, and I especially liked when she would let me lick the batter from her spoon. One day, I snuck a large piece of chocolate that was next to her on the counter. It was, it turned out, bakers’ chocolate, and unsweetened. I must have made the most ridiculous face sucking on the bitter stuff, because Grandma couldn’t stop laughing.
