“What does it taste like?” my cousin asked her sister.
“I guess a little like Yoohoo,” was the reply, “yeah, definitely like Yoohoo.”
I smiled to myself. My chocolate milk days were over before Yohoo arrived, so definitely no basis for comparison there. But as my cousin tried to describe the rich chocolaty drink I had brought back to England from Belgium, my mind was full of reflections, and stirrings and memories.
Taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the one who takes refuge in him (Psalm 34:8).
I struggled to gather my thoughts around all that Cécémel tasted like. I knew that it tasted like that day at school, when my dad arrived out of the blue from his overseas job. Plucking my sister and me out of classes, he headed us down to Tantie Ursula’s shop a short walk from the school. My sister hung back shyly, but I clung tightly to my dad, and greedily gulped down his presence as I sipped on the cold Cécémel he ordered at the shop counter.
From that day, Cécémel became forever linked in my mind with my dad, and with days of “permanence” and stability, “when the evil days [came] not”, and alcohol had not yet stolen him away from us. Now, half listening to my cousins’ conversation, I closed my eyes and thought of that long-ago fusion of love and chocolate. And I dared to peel back the layers of time and healing for a moment and relish all that Cécémel tasted like.
It tasted like story time with Greek heroes, like Jason and the Argonauts, and fairy tales translated from the moderate French my dad had learned in high school.
It tasted like an old six string with country music and gospel songs and melancholy ballads deep into the evening while the oil lamp sputtered, and the shade grew black from the kerosene smoke.
It tasted like the high gloss of Christmas varnish, with floors stained to a blinding shine, and tracks meticulously set up for the battery powered trains that hooted and puffed across our early years.
But then came the later years, and the ruin that would cause our family to “inherit the wind” (Proverbs 11:29). And eventually Cécémel was no longer imported from the Dutch Caribbean.
It was on my first trip to Belgium several years ago that I rediscovered the chocolate treasure of my childhood. I think that my dear friend Ann and her son were slightly amused at my excitement. But they patiently indulged me, making sure Cécémel was in our supermarket cart, and then bringing Cécémel to me on subsequent visits to the US.
Now on this my latest trip, I was sharing Cécémel with my UK cousins. For me it was full circle, since their grandmother’s shop was the scene of that long ago truant day when Cécémel was branded on my heart. Stamped as a precious memory by the God who heals all hurts and makes beauty out of ashes—with chocolate memories that taste like love and security. And most of all like the goodness of God.
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