Hot Chocolate in New Zealand

Goddamn, I loved soy hot chocolates. I loved them in the morning. I loved them in the afternoon. I occasionally enjoyed them in the evening when I was feeling festive. For a time, in July, my love for hot chocolates became too severe and I suffered headaches at almost any moment when I wasn't drinking a large cup of cocoa. I had to make a change, so I faced my issue and started to order lemon, honey and ginger drinks. They are equally sweet, far less satisfying, and the ginger can give you gas. Thus, I am not writing about a new addiction; I am reflecting on my old one.

It is only now, after several months spent gaining the upperhand over my liquid obsession that I have realized the truth. It is not the chocolate that I was after. It was the damn marshmallows. Here in this lovely island nation, where the streets are narrow, where the clouds soar faster than time, where a day without brie is a day not known, and where a baked good is an afternoon imperative, the people know how to do marshmallows. They come with every cocoa; they will be pink or white; they are sometimes shaped like a fish and dipped in chocolate. Can you think of anything stranger?

I remember a time when my sister would stick fluffy, white cylinders of mallow puffiness onto a wire hanger and let me cook it over the stove until it was charred. We weren't really building s'mores or anything. We were just eating something that was left over in the cupboard. We never had chocolate, as our mother's reality never factored in edible luxuries like chocolate or, god forbid, cheese. Sometimes, we had graham crackers. Usually, we just slurped the sloppy mess into our mouths, waving our hands furiously to cool down the burned sugar on our tongues. So, my sister knew how to do marshmallows, even if it was just her desperate response to an extremely hungry and extremely cranky younger sister. Oh, and our inadequate food supply did force her hand a bit. I know, I know, blow your nose and be done with it. While we didn't have protein or complex carbohydrates in our youth, we always managed to scrape together some marshmallows for a real fine indoor cookout. That should make you feel better about my troubled childhood.

Here, it's different. Yeah, I have some food in the kitchen, but not much. Since my partner spends the better part of every day at the Company, it's just me and the doggie who need to eat in the home. She gets kibble and I get soup. Or I get cheese and crackers. Or chocolate. My diet in adulthood is the obvious result of my youthful deprivation. Go ahead and wipe away that tear.

Anyway, the point of all this is: the marshmallows in New Zealand are extremely delicious, and may become my fondest memory of this place once I return to California. Sure, the scenery is close to perfect here. There's no smog, very little traffic, and stars that you couldn't count on two hands and two feet. Those things mean a lot to me, but there is also the white, pink or fish-shaped marshmallow. There is no marshmallow in North America that melts quite so delectably as a Kiwi mallow in hot chocolate. Kudos to the Kiwis for their commitment to providing two or more marshmallows with every cocoa ordered. This could really put them on the map.