I have been reduced to wanting only chocolate.  I made a pork roast on the bone last night, stuffing it with a gremolata of fresh bread crumbs, lemon zest, smashed garlic, parsley, mint, sage, rosemary, marjoram and a douse of olive oil, then searing it before roasting, and every fifteen minutes, giving it a pour of chianti.  A side of wilted spinach with garlic, raisins and pignoli.  I made a risotto with Amarone della Valpolicella, and before that, a starter of roasted pumpkin with pancetta and onion, spooned over bruschetta that had been soaked with stock and then the whole thing set under a small stormm of Parmigiano Reggiano shavings. 

But I want chocolate.  I have had 65% Lindt truffle bars, dark chocolate balls filled with the Captain’s Rum, soft chunks of hazlenut and chocolate creaminess, chocolate with pepperoncino, chocolate with pear, and still it is not enough.  In the morning when I wake up, there is a short repreive.  Cappucino and a flaky butter pastry calms the longing at least until 11. 

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