The Incandescent Turtle Bar

This weekend I was lucky enough to go home to Vermont for fall break. While I enjoyed the sensational fall festivities, like working at a Pumpkin Festival and apple picking with my mom, one of the highlights of my return came in a simple, rectangular package. In keeping with tradition (from the only other time that I've left for college), I stopped at a bakery called Aléchante on the way out of town, and splurged on one epic treat: the turtle bar. This dense morsel packs a whopping punch in one tiny bite. It starts with a thick layer of soft, creamy chocolate, then plunges into gooey caramel with walnuts dancing in the swirls, and ends with the light flourish of a crumbly shortbread crust. It is one perfect symphony of culinary brilliance.

Every time I eat one of these turtle bars, I do my best to display restraint; I tell myself I'll eat only part of it and save the rest for later, seeing as it probably contains an entire day's worth of calories and a week's worth of saturated fats. I try to be like Charlie (from Roald Dahl's book), taking one little nibble at a time, then patiently waiting for his next bite (he waits a whole day, I try for just a minute or two). Well, it always fails. There is no stopping the insatiable craving after one bite, to take another. Before I know it the whole bar is gone, with only a few crumbs trailing behind. This is the part where the guilt is supposed to come flooding in, but all I feel is a brief sadness that there it's all gone, and then a feeling of relief as I notice the bursting feeling in my gut.