Death by Chocolate

Death by chocolate was a summer’s afternoon at my best friend’s house. Her family bustling around the kitchen in organised chaos. Nothing like my quiet household; there was no death by chocolate at my house, there was no hustle and bustle Sunday lunch tradition. There were only the four of us, though, compared to this family of seven plus visiting family. I think they did this every Sunday. My best friend Arielle was adopted by her aunt, I guess. Her aunt was the matriarch, revered and respected. She had a partner, Mr Horton, whom everyone despised. They didn’t call him Dad or Grandpa; he was just Mr Horton. Arielle said her mother would never marry him; he was just there for companionship (she did, in fact, marry Mr Horton a decade later). Mr Horton was only tolerated on the condition that his position and presence was temporary and served their mother’s need to have someone, but she was still in control. As a mother to three daughters, it was her responsibility to show strength and reserve. Or so was the impression. Mr Horton knew his place, a dark brown lazy boy in front of the television. He didn’t say much, clearly an accessory to the matriarch and possibly overwhelmed by her strong-willed daughters.

I tried asking Arielle how she came to live here in his busy but already oversubscribed home. She didn’t say much about her family, who lived in Zambia, possibly from what I could gather. Her explanation was very vague, and through the years, I don’t recall her going to visit them. The reasons were shrouded and steeped in intrigue. But being young, I had not yet mastered the art of subtlety and indirect questioning, so I let it slide. Hoping the mystery would be revealed in time.

I didn’t come here every Sunday afternoon, but the few times I did leave me with sights and smells that would linger in my memories for a lifetime. The smells of home, the sunshine on my skin, the African accents of people speaking to me, often rude and assuming. Her family said what they meant and quite bluntly too. Her older sister Rena was drinking buddies with my father. She must’ve been in her thirties. But she had short a-little-longer than a pixie cut, trendy dyed blonde hair which contrasted with her light brown skin, making her look skin kissed and exotic. She wore mini skirts and tight clothes even though she was a mother of two boys. Not exactly scandalous, but she stood out in our reserved neighbourhood. I was fascinated by her.

Out of my mother’s fourteen sisters, no one looked or dressed like Rena. Rena didn’t exactly have a reputation, but she was a single mom living in a cottage on her mother’s property with her two boys. So again, I didn’t know why or how she came to be here. Most likely the subject of ‘adult’ conversation, not fore children to ‘pick up stompies’ as our parents used to say. Stompies was slang for cigarette butts stamped out on the floor, which we children picked up and pretended to smoke. This saying became a synonym for hearing the tail end of a conversation and not fully understanding the context. Our parents would yell when they noticed us, “stop picking up stompies”, and we would back up slowly out of the room and hang around the doorway, hoping to hear more of the gossip.

Other things happened in this household that didn’t happen in mine. They put fresh cream in their scrambled eggs for one – I’ve tried this, but I still can’t understand why. They taste the same as with milk like we used. I think my fascination was more the specific way they had of doing things passed down from mother to daughter. That’s the way mother did it, so that’s the way it was done. Arielle had another sister called Louise; they shared a room. Louise was eighteen and had a boyfriend; to our fifteen-year-old minds, this was a marvel, being old enough to be allowed to have a boyfriend. I never saw this boyfriend, only heard of his existence. Mother approved of him, and no one asked Mr Horton. Louise had an eighties mullet haircut that we thought was cool. She was quiet and soft-spoken and dreamed of marrying her boyfriend one day. Arielle was not impressed by a said boyfriend – although I suspect Arielle was not impressed by any man/boy. She had the image of the perfect man in her head, and there was no compromise. She married a millionaire and drinks champagne for breakfast on the french riviera; she has two au pairs, feeds her toddlers lobster, and takes long walks on the beach. He (the perfect man) hired an entire hotel for their fairy tale wedding; I guess happily ever after really is a thing. Mr Horton was at the wedding. Still called Mr Horton by the entire family. We don’t talk much anymore except for the odd email. However, what lingers is the death by chocolate, a layered chocolate pudding with chocolate cake, whipped cream, and chocolate chunks. I’d never tasted anything like it. After lunch, it was transported to the dining table amongst other deserts per Sunday tradition. It was the best I ever had.