Guest Author - Deborah Markus

When I was young, my mother was given a copy of Sandra Boynton's adorable, laugh-out-loud funny book Chocolate: The Consuming Passion. My ordinary childhood fondness for chocolate was already blossoming into something stronger, and I laughed at Boynton's warning that this book was not for people who merely "like" chocolate, except in the sense of the sentence, "I like to breathe."

When I grew up and could buy books of my own, I immediately got my own copy. It was that or steal my mother's on a visit home, and after five daughters' worth of borrowing, she was keeping the good stuff hidden or under lock and key.

Though The Consuming Passion is as much about its illustrations as it is its text, the writing is not only funny but informative. Boynton discusses the history of chocolate, the distinctions between sweet, semisweet, and bittersweet chocolate, chocolate terminology (just what is "mouth feel," and can't they find a better word for it?), and even gives readers a few recipes. Her chocolate mousse is outstanding, but simple enough that even the novice cook can prepare it with confidence.

However, all the information is tucked between laughs. Take, for instance, the chapter on carob. Boynton soberly lays out the facts, then ends with the driest of asides:

"Carob is a brown powder made from the pulverized fruit of a Mediterranean evergreen. Some consider carob an adequate substitute for chocolate because it has some similar nutrients (calcium, phosphorus), and because it can, when combined with vegetable fat and sugar, be made to approximate the color and consistency of chocolate. Of course, the same arguments can as persuasively be made in favor of dirt."

(Try writing a column about carob with that last line echoing in your head. I managed, but only just.)

I constantly find myself applying Boynton's wisdom in my chocolate life. She points out early on in the book that novelty chocolate usually rides solely on its gimmick, rather than focusing on quality -- a fact that I have found to be sadly true. She also helped persuade me into developing a taste for very dark chocolate long before it was fashionable, by arguing that "almost no one will ask more than once to share it with you." This is less true than it once was, of course, but still a good habit to have.

Probably my favorite line in the book is from the section on "Evaluating Chocolate" -- which was also my first introduction to the concept of giving some thought to the chocolate I consumed, rather than simply accepting what I was given on Halloween or buying whatever was cheapest the rest of the year. In this chapter, Boynton discusses presentation, snap, and mouth feel. She defines each word or phrase carefully. Snap, for instance:

"This term refers to the way the chocolate performs under pressure. Good chocolate should have a spunky, decisive break. If it splinters, it is too dry; if it breaks reluctantly, it is too waxy; if it folds, something is definitely wrong."

That last bit never fails to push me most of the way out of my seat with helpless laughter. Once I was foolish enough to tuck a bar of chocolate into my purse and go outside in early summer in Florida. By the time I got back to my hotel room, the damage was done. "My chocolate is folding," I cried to my husband and son. "Something is definitely wrong."

Favorable reviews are harder to write than out and out pans. One wants to quote the whole book, and compel the reader -- by force, if necessary -- to buy the treasure in question. I have enjoyed this book as much, and almost as often, as I have its subject matter.