Chocolate Craving Quotes

There is something about very cold weather that gives one an enormous appetite. Most of us find ourselves beginning to crave rich steaming stews and hot apple pies and all kinds of delicious warming dishes; and because we are all a great deal luckier than we realize, we usually get what we want—or near enough.

Strawberry milk,” I say, eyeing him as we head toward the counter. “Really.” He turns to me. “Do you have something to say about my snack selections?” “Nope.” I fall into line behind him. “I just didn’t realize you were a middle-school girl going to a slumber party.” “And I,” he says, plunking his strawberry-fest down on the counter, “didn’t realize you were a soccer mom justifying her chocolate craving with the fact that raisins are a fruit.

Maybe it was just an over abundance of hormones, a response to a sexual starvation diet. I'd been without for so long that my body was craving the worst possible thing for me. Cooper was carnal triple chocolate cheesecake, deep-fried on a stick.

The first time I heard you laugh, I only wanted to say funny things so you would always be laughing. You know what happens to chocolate when you leave it out in the sun? I’m that unfortunate chocolate and you, you are the laughing sun. For this reason, I am offering myself to you not as a martyr or some selfless fool, but as a self-indulgent moth who actively pursues the light without much fear for the flame. The moth who revels in the heat and declares: Burn me.

A smile flickered across Coral’s face. “Have you ever noticed that once you have had a taste of certain sweets—raspberry trifle is my own despair—it is quite impossible not to think, not to want, not to crave until you have taken another bite?” “Lord Swartingham is not a raspberry trifle.” “No, more of a dark chocolate mousse, I should think,” Coral murmured. “And,” Anna continued as if she hadn’t heard the interruption, “I don’t need another bite, uh,night of him.

He craved sex and chocolate. Chocolate was his heroin. Men were his needle.

Of Woman and Chocolate   "Chocolate shares both the bitter and the sweet. Chocolate melts away all cares, coating the heart while smothering every last ache.   Chocolate brings a smile to the lips on contact, leaving a dark kiss behind.   Chocolate is amiable, complimenting any pairing; berries, peanut butter, pretzels, mint, pastries, drinks...everything goes with chocolate.   The very thought of chocolate awakens taste buds, sparking memories of candy-coated happiness.   Chocolate will go nuts with you, no questions asked.   Chocolate craves your lips, melts at your touch, and savors the moment.   Chocolate is that dark and beautiful knight who charges in on his gallant steed ready to slay dragons when needed.   Chocolate never disappoints; it leaves its lover wanting more.   Chocolate is the ultimate satisfaction, synonymous with perfection.   Chocolate is rich, smooth pleasure.   Chocolate has finesse - the charm to seduce and indulge at any time, day or night.   Chocolate is a true friend, a trusted confidant, and faithful lover. Chocolate warms and comforts and sympathizes.   Chocolate holds power over depression, victory over disappointment.   Chocolate savvies the needs of a woman and owns her.   Simply put, chocolate is paradise.

The smell was like chocolate and cookies and biscuits and gravy and everything else that was delicious. It damn near drove me crazy every time I had to touch one. I’d been fighting the cravings the way I’d never fought the urge to take drugs or get drunk.

Men are like chocolate; they’re never around when you have a craving.

I craved something so deep, so passionate that it hurt to even think about it. Looking up at that first star, just now sparkling, happy in its dance through my atmosphere, I made my wish, my prayer, my making myself available.

Sharing pain with someone isn't something to take lightly. Every month, Chapel sent me chocolates for my PMS cravings, and I took Midol to lessen his discomfort.

It drives me nuts that our food specialist insist on giving us the same number of chocolate, vanilla, and butterscotch puddings, when the laws of physics dictate chocolate will disappear much faster. No one gets a vanilla craving in space (or on earth).

The Decision ...I wiped my hands on my pinafore now sullied and stained not crisp or pressed as it had been before...

His voice was luscious caramel, wrapped in dark chocolate and rolled in sugar. She had the unconscionable craving to lick him and find out if he tasted as good as he sounded

Human beings are walking bundles of cravings. Cravings for food, water, shelter, warmth; sex and companionship; status, a tribe to belong to; kicks, control, purpose; and so on, all the way down toe chocolate-brown bathroom suites. Love is one way to satisfy some of these cravings. But love's not just the drug; it's also the dealer. Love wants love in return. Like drugs, the highs look divine, and I envy the users. But when the side effects kick in - jealousy, the rages, grief, I think: Count me out. Elizabethans equated romantic love with insanity, Buddhists view it as a brat throwing a tantrum at the picnic of the calm mind.

Using high math and computations, he engineers them, with one goal in mind: to create the biggest crave. “People say, ‘I crave chocolate,’ ” Moskowitz told me. “But why do we crave chocolate, or chips? And how do you get people to crave these and other foods?

A novel is a hearty meal, but poems are the Belgian chocolates of the bookshelf. You can pick one and linger over it. Savour the aroma, the taste, the melting texture, the sweet craving it leaves behind! Or you can scoff down as many as you can eat. It’s up to you.

To give the devil its due, ours is the best Age men ever lived in; we are all more comfortable and virtuous than we ever were; we have many new accomplishments, advertisements in green pastures, telephones in bedrooms, more newspapers than we want to read, and extremely punctilious diagnosis of maladies. A doctor examined a young lady the other day, and among his notes were there: ‘Not afraid of small rooms, ghosts, or thunderstorms – not made drunk by hearing Wagner; brown hair, artistic hands; had a craving for chocolate in 1918.

Tell me what to do." His warm breath tickled my ear. "Relax." "Please, Noah, I don't want to do this wrong. Tell me how to make you feel good." He shifted so that his body rested beside mine, his leg and arm still draped over me. I felt small under his warmth and strength. His chocolate-brown eyes softened. "Being with you feels good. Touching you-"he tucked a curl behind my ear"-feels good. I have never wanted anyone like I want you. There's nothing you can do wrong when just breathing makes everything right." His hand framed my face and his tone was edget with husky authority. "I want you, but only if you want me." I kissed him back, allowing my arms to wrap around him. His fingers gently massaged my neck, releasing the tension, erasing my unease. The kiss became a drug and i craved more with every touch. Our bodies twined so tightly to one another, i had no idea where i began and he ended. Noah felt strong and warm and muscular and safe and he smelled, oh, God, delicious. I couldn't stop kissing him if my life depend it upon it: his lips, his neck, his chest, and Noah seemed as hungry as me. We rolled and we touched and we shed unwanted clothes. I moaned and he moaned and my mind and soul and body stood on the edge of pure ecstasy. And i waited. I waited for that moment of pausing for protection and the burning pain my friends described, but Noah never stopped and the pain never came, not even when i whispered his name and praise God several times in a row. Both of us gasped for air while kissing each other softly and i struggled to comprehend i was still a virgin. He shifted off of me and tugged me close to him. My entire body became lazily warm, happy and sated. I listened to his heartbeat and closed my eyes, enjoying the relaxing pull of his hand in my hair. "Noah," i whispered. "I thought..." we were going to make love. He tipped my chin, forcing me to look at him. "We have forever to work up to that, Echo. Let's enjoy every step of the way." My mind drifted this way and that. Mostly between focusing on his heart, his touch and the sweetest word i had ever heard: forever. One clear thought forced my eyes open. "You 're putting me to sleep." "So?" he asked a little too innocently. I swallowed. "I'll have nightmares." "Then we 'll have an excuse to do this again.

Like chocolate, she craved sleep and it made her life brighter, but she could do without.

I don’t crave martinis the way I do, say, an economy-size bag of chocolate-covered pretzels, but when I need a warm blur to descend on me, and fast, it’s my elixir of choice.

Taken slowly, or mindfully, even eating an orange or a bowl of soup, or a small piece of dark chocolate for that matter, can take on the flavor or prayer.

Judging from the state of my consciousness at the time, millions of years of hominid evolution had produced nothing more transcendent than a craving for a cheeseburger and a chocolate milkshake.

I didn't know until I licked the mocha buttercream from my third devil's food cupcake that this was the flavor of starting over- dark chocolate with that take-charge undercurrent of coffee. I could actually taste it, feel it. And now I craved it.

Drinking lots of alcohol makes the gut leakier, allowing microbes to more readily influence the brain. Could that help to explain why alcoholics often experience depression or anxiety? Our diet reshapes the microbes in our gut, could those changes ripple out to affect our minds? The gut microbiome becomes less stable in old age-could that contribute to the rise of brain disease in the elderly? And could our microbes manipulate our food cravings in the first place? If you reach for a burger or a chocolate bar what exactly is pushing that hand forward?

She didn't need a man, she was her own man. It intimidated the fuck out of me, but it also turned me on. Her ambition, her success, her determination made me want her in ways I never thought possible. I'd always dated girls who were more than willing to let me be the alpha in the relationship. I had a feeling Riggs would chew me up and spit me out if I told her what to do. My heart had a soft spot for her. I knew below those name brand clothes and flawless tan was someone totally different. I wanted to see that person. I craved to see inside her soul, a peek at what she was hiding behind her chocolate brown eyes.

symptoms of anxiety, fluid retention, sugar and chocolate cravings, mood swings, irritability, bloating, edema, headache, and sore breasts escalated before her period and lifted the minute her period began. Taking magnesium supplements may be the solution for PMS, advises Melvyn Werbach, M.D. Recent studies showed that of 192 women taking 400 mg of magnesium daily for PMS, 95 percent experienced less breast pain and had less weight gain, 89 percent suffered less nervous tension, and 43 percent had fewer headaches. (Dr. Werbach and several other researchers also advise that women should take 50 mg of vitamin B6 daily with the magnesium to assist in magnesium absorption.)

Something tells me that you sneak bars up to your room a lot. In fact, you probably have a whole little shoebox dedicated to them.” “Wrong.” “I don’t think I am. Tell the truth, Emery. Do you hoard chocolate bars?” “Eww! Hoarding makes it sound gross. It’s not like I collect them or anything. I just keep a few on hand when the craving hits.” “And how often is that?” He’s pushing me. It’s evident by the grin on his face, but there’s something about the way his eyes are lighting up, the first time they’ve done it since he got here today, that makes me wanna answer him just to keep it going. I like the way he is right now. It’s much better than the tense and angry way he was before. “Every single day.” I admit and along with the smile comes a thick rumble of laughter. “So, you admit you have a problem. That’s the first step. Now that you’ve admitted it, I can properly treat you.” “And how do you plan on doing that?” “You solemnly swear never to take home and hide another chocolate bar, and I’ll make sure that every day, you have your daily dose of it.

DO YOU HAVE OR HAVE YOU EXPERIENCED IN THE PAST SIX MONTHS . . . — PART A — ■ A feeling you’re constantly racing from one task to the next? ■ Feeling wired yet tired? ■ A struggle calming down before bedtime, or a second wind that keeps you up late? ■ Difficulty falling asleep or disrupted sleep? ■ A feeling of anxiety or nervousness—can’t stop worrying about things beyond your control? ■ A quickness to feel anger or rage—frequent screaming or yelling? ■ Memory lapses or feeling distracted, especially under duress? ■ Sugar cravings (you need “a little something” after each meal, usually of the chocolate variety)? ■ Increased abdominal circumference, greater than 35 inches (the dreaded abdominal fat, or muffin top—not bloating)? ■ Skin conditions such as eczema or thin skin (sometimes physiologically and psychologically)? ■ Bone loss (perhaps your doctor uses scarier terms, such as osteopenia or osteoporosis)? ■ High blood pressure or rapid heartbeat unrelated to those cute red shoes in the store window? ■ High blood sugar (maybe your clinician has mentioned the words prediabetes or even diabetes or insulin resistance)? Shakiness between meals, also known as blood sugar instability? ■ Indigestion, ulcers, or GERD (gastroesophageal reflux disease)? ■ More difficulty recovering from physical injury than in the past? ■ Unexplained pink to purple stretch marks on your belly or back? ■ Irregular menstrual cycles? ■ Decreased fertility?

Human beings,’ I inhale my wine’s nutmeggy steam, ‘are walking bundles of cravings. Cravings for food, water, shelter, warmth; sex and companionship; status, a tribe to belong to; kicks, control, purpose; and so on, all the way down to chocolate-brown bathroom suites. Love is one way to satisfy some of these cravings. But love’s not just the drug: it’s also the dealer.

Spirits have cravings--they're only human (well, some of them are)--but the amazing thing about these cravings is that they are SLIMMING POSITIVE! That's right, spirits don't crave sugary foods, or fat, or chocolate, or deep-fried carbs. They crave HEALTHY food like raw liver and bugs and those tiny dried-up foods you find in old attics and the better-stocked graveyards.

Hadn’t we said no kissing in the house? Not that the rule had stopped us from kissing in the game room last night after we’d finished our ice cream. “I’m still craving the flavor of chocolate chip cookie dough,” he’d said. So of course, I’d let him sample. But it had been . . . stressful. Because every time the house creaked, we were looking at the French doors expecting to see Dad standing there with a baseball bat in hand.

support group she was leading for women with premenstrual syndrome. One of their self-help methods was to keep a journal of symptoms. Maureen’s journal for the next couple of months clearly showed that her symptoms of anxiety, fluid retention, sugar and chocolate cravings, mood swings, irritability, bloating, edema, headache, and sore breasts escalated before her period and lifted the minute her period began. Taking magnesium supplements may be the solution for PMS, advises Melvyn Werbach, M.D. Recent studies showed that of 192 women taking 400 mg of magnesium daily for PMS, 95 percent experienced less breast pain and had less weight gain, 89 percent suffered less nervous tension, and 43 percent had fewer headaches. (Dr. Werbach and several other researchers also advise that women should take 50 mg of vitamin B6 daily with the magnesium to assist in magnesium absorption.)

I heard a shower go on, a distant shower, not in the bathroom next to my room, but in the one across the hall, which meant it was Jason. He’d taken at least one shower, usually two a day in that bathroom. So why was I suddenly freaked out by the thought of him in the shower? Naked? Oh, gosh, this was insane. What if he opened the door to my bedroom? What if he came inside? What if he wanted to give me a good-morning kiss? Okay, that was so not going to happen. Hadn’t we said no kissing in the house? Not that the rule had stopped us from kissing in the game room last night after we’d finished our ice cream. “I’m still craving the flavor of chocolate chip cookie dough,” he’d said. So of course, I’d let him sample.

MR. McCULLOUGH: If you look at the brain of somebody who has just been harmed by someone—they’ve been ridiculed or harassed or insulted—we can put those people into technology that allows us to see what their brains are doing, right? So we can look at sort of what your brain looks like on revenge. It looks exactly like the brain of somebody who is thirsty and is just about to get a sweet drink to drink or somebody who’s hungry who’s about to get a piece of chocolate to eat. TIPPETT: It’s like the satisfaction of a craving? MR. McCULLOUGH: It is exactly like that. It is literally a craving. What you see is high activation in the brain’s reward system. . . . The desire for revenge does not come from some sick dark part of how our minds operate. It is a craving to solve a problem and accomplish a goal.

...Love is a lie. It’s not some deep and meaningful connection between two people built over stolen moments and awkward glances and hot chocolates. It’s not a holy expression of the profound understanding you have for another person or a sign from the universe that you’ve found the one human being in the world that you’re fated to spend the rest of your life with. “Love is chemical warfare. It’s your body responding to their pheromones by juicing you with feel-good hormones and then spraying your own cocktail of pheromones into the air. It’s serotonin and dopamine and oxytocin. You can get the same high from eating a bag of chocolates, did you know that? And the longer you spend with someone, the more addicted to them you become. Your body craves the chemicals their body churns out. Love turns us into junkies.

In 1976, a doctoral student at the University of Nottingham in England demonstrated that randomizing letters in the middle of words had no effect on the ability of readers to understand sentences. In tihs setncene, for emalxpe, ervey scarbelmd wrod rmenias bcilasaly leibgle. Why? Because we are deeply accustomed to seeing letters arranged in certain patterns. Because the eye is in a rush, and the brain, eager to locate meaning, makes assumptions. This is true of phrases, too. An author writes “crack of dawn” or “sidelong glance” or “crystal clear” and the reader’s eye continues on, at ease with combinations of words it has encountered innumerable times before. But does the reader, or the writer, actually expend the energy to see what is cracking at dawn or what is clear about a crystal? The mind craves ease; it encourages the senses to recognize symbols, to gloss. It makes maps of our kitchen drawers and neighborhood streets; it fashions a sort of algebra out of life. And this is useful, even essential—X is the route to work, Y is the heft and feel of a nickel between your fingers. Without habit, the beauty of the world would overwhelm us. We’d pass out every time we saw—actually saw—a flower. Imagine if we only got to see a cumulonimbus cloud or Cassiopeia or a snowfall once a century: there’d be pandemonium in the streets. People would lie by the thousands in the fields on their backs. We need habit to get through a day, to get to work, to feed our children. But habit is dangerous, too. The act of seeing can quickly become unconscious and automatic. The eye sees something—gray-brown bark, say, fissured into broad, vertical plates—and the brain spits out tree trunk and the eye moves on. But did I really take the time to see the tree? I glimpse hazel hair, high cheekbones, a field of freckles, and I think Shauna. But did I take the time to see my wife? “Habitualization,” a Russian army-commissar-turned-literary-critic named Viktor Shklovsky wrote in 1917, “devours works, clothes, furniture, one’s wife, and the fear of war.” What he argued is that, over time, we stop perceiving familiar things—words, friends, apartments—as they truly are. To eat a banana for the thousandth time is nothing like eating a banana for the first time. To have sex with somebody for the thousandth time is nothing like having sex with that person for the first time. The easier an experience, or the more entrenched, or the more familiar, the fainter our sensation of it becomes. This is true of chocolate and marriages and hometowns and narrative structures. Complexities wane, miracles become unremarkable, and if we’re not careful, pretty soon we’re gazing out at our lives as if through a burlap sack. In the Tom Andrews Studio I open my journal and stare out at the trunk of the umbrella pine and do my best to fight off the atrophy that comes from seeing things too frequently. I try to shape a few sentences around this tiny corner of Rome; I try to force my eye to slow down. A good journal entry—like a good song, or sketch, or photograph—ought to break up the habitual and lift away the film that forms over the eye, the finger, the tongue, the heart. A good journal entry ought be a love letter to the world. Leave home, leave the country, leave the familiar. Only then can routine experience—buying bread, eating vegetables, even saying hello—become new all over again.

Great writers and my mom never used food as an object. Instead it was a medium, a catalyst to mend hearts, to break down barriers, to build relationships. Mom's cooking fed body and soul. She used to quip, "If the food is good, there's no need to talk about the weather." That was my mantra for years---food as meal and conversation, a total experience. I leaned my forehead against the glass and thought again about Emma and the arrowroot. Mom had highlighted it in my sophomore English class. "Jane Fairfax knew it was given with a selfish heart. Emma didn't care about Jane, she just wanted to appear benevolent." "That girl was stupid. She was poor and should've accepted the gift." The football team had hooted for their spokesman. "That girl's name was Jane Fairfax, and motivation always matters." Mom's glare seared them. I tried to remember the rest of the lesson, but couldn't. I think she assigned a paper, and the football team stopped chuckling. Another memory flashed before my eyes. It was from that same spring; Mom was baking a cake to take to a neighbor who'd had a knee replacement. "We don't have enough chocolate." I shut the cabinet door. "We're making an orange cake, not chocolate." "Chocolate is so much better." "Then we're lucky it's not for you. Mrs. Conner is sad and she hurts and it's spring. The orange cake will not only show we care, it'll bring sunshine and spring to her dinner tonight. She needs that." "It's just a cake." "It's never just a cake, Lizzy." I remembered the end of that lesson: I rolled my eyes----Mom loathed that----and received dish duty. But it turned out okay; the batter was excellent. I shoved the movie reel of scenes from my head. They didn't fit in my world. Food was the object. Arrowroot was arrowroot. Cake was cake. And if it was made with artisan dark chocolate and vanilla harvested by unicorns, all the better. People would crave it, order it, and pay for it. Food wasn't a metaphor---it was the commodity---and to couch it in other terms was fatuous. The one who prepared it best won.

Even though Jasmine was supposed to try Marcella's Stone Plum Soup tonight, she pulled at her baking cupboard. She wanted chocolate. She wanted oozing, rich, creamy, comforting chocolate. She would throw chops on the grill and toss a salad for dinner. Tonight, she was going to concentrate her efforts on dessert. She pulled out her big bowl and mixer. She took down blocks of chocolate, vanilla, sugar. Poked her head into the refrigerator to count the eggs. Ten. Just enough. Her mouth watered, her tongue repeatedly swallowing the swamp that had become her mouth. Cream? A pint poked from behind the mayonnaise. She smelled it. One day to spare. She padded to the liquor cabinet and examined her choices. Brandy, amaretto, Grand Marnier. Mmm, yes. Grand Marnier, a subtle orange swirl. The chocolate and butter wobbled over the heat of the double boiler. Unctuous and smooth. Jasmine beat the eggs and sugar until lemony light. She poured in the chocolate in a long professional sweep. A few deft turns of the spatula turned the mixture into what she really craved. She stood over the bowl tasting slabs of it from the spatula. A good dash of Grand Marnier. Another taste. And another. She had to discard a number of egg whites to fit with the reduced mixture. She finally tipped the glossy beaten whites into the chocolate.

The dream is not what you see during your sleep, it is the thing that makes you not sleep!

rule of thumb for patients craving sweet: Start with a big glass of water. Wait fifteen minutes. If you are still wanting sweet, have fat first in the form of a heaping teaspoon of coconut oil with cinnamon, a few macadamia nuts, a hard-boiled egg, or a piece of jerky. Wait another fifteen minutes. If you are still craving sweet, then perhaps go for it (and by that we mean a piece of dark chocolate [85 percent cocoa or higher] or ¼ cup of dark berries). Then go for a walk so as not to start a binge. Exercise regulates the sweet tooth by releasing endorphins. But most important, find the sweetness in your life—with nature, loved ones, or within yourself—not within a bag of M&M’s. For more ideas about this, the book Nourishing Wisdom by Marc David has been a classic in the emotional nutrition world for over fifteen years.

Nicole craved sweets. Her list included peach pie, rhubarb pie, and pumpkin pie, all of which would be on hand the following week for the Fourth of July cookout on the bluff, so she knew Quinnie cooks would have their recipe cards nearby. In addition to pies, she wanted recipes for blueberry cobbler, apple crisp, molasses Indian pudding, Isobel Skane's chocolate almond candy, and, of course, Melissa Parker's marble macadamia brownies.

She knew all the best doctors and Swedish cleaning ladies and where to buy the finest brownies. It was either Greenberg’s or William Pohl, “depending on what your chocolate craving is signaling.

said to expect such thoughts when I returned home, and that those thoughts would fade with time. I sure hoped she was right. I still had a shock every time I looked in the mirror, a pleasant shock mind you, but nevertheless a shock. Even though my life had immeasurably changed for the better, I was still having trouble coming to terms with the change itself. I had been told time and time again that this was normal, but that didn’t make it any easier to experience. I suppose I had been depressed before the accident. I looked around my cottage, surprised that this had been my taste. The curtains were hideous, and everything was dark. I suppose I had been trying to hide away from the world. Still, my job wouldn’t have helped. I had been the marketing manager for a local small art gallery. The boss had been a screaming banshee, and that was a polite description for her. She had been impossible to deal with and had a regular staff turnover. I had been there years longer than any other employee. Looking back, I wondered how I had taken her verbal abuse and yelling for years, but I suppose I had been used to being bullied since school. I shook myself. That was all behind me now, and my only connection with that was a desire to work in some way to help people who had been bullied. There was altogether way too much bullying in the world. Now I had enough money to buy a nice place, but first things first. I was going to concentrate on starting my business. I would simply buy some bright new cushions to make the place look a little better and make sure all the curtains were open. I’d buy some nice smelling incense and an oil burner, and burn lavender oil. I was craving nice fragrances, after being accustomed to the antiseptic smell of the hospital, a smell I am sure I will never forget.

I just finished Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,” I confided. “And I am craving chocolate now like crazy.” I wasn’t asking for chocolate; that would have been rude. I was simply answering her question, and I expected her to say longingly, “I know exactly what you mean,” looking off into the middle distance as she viscerally remembered the book’s lascivious, melting descriptions. “Well, sorry,” she said instead, her cheer undaunted, “I don’t have any!” And off she went, before I could explain. This might have been the first time I realized that not everyone’s brain was wired the same way mine was.

This recipe was a variation on Nanny's stout cake. Jena Lynn and I experimented when mango beer came on the market one summer. We added coconut and raspberries, and the mango beer cake was born.

This isn’t like craving a sandwich.” “It had better fucking not be,” he said. “I’m no sandwich. I’m like a goddamn triple chocolate sundae with sprinkles and syrup and the juiciest damn cherry on top. Don’t compare me to a basic lunch, Cal, you’ll hurt my damn feelings.

Big” is a word we use to cajole a child: “Be a big girl!” “Act like the big kids!” Having it applied to you as an adult is a cloaked reminder of what people really think, of the way we infantilize and desexualize fat people. (Desexualization is just another form of sexualization. Telling fat women they’re sexless is still putting women in their sexual place.) Fat people are helpless babies enslaved to their most capricious cravings. Fat people do not know what’s best for them. Fat people need to be guided and scolded like children. Having that awkward, babyish word dragging on you every day of your life, from childhood into maturity, well, maybe it’s no wonder that I prefer hot chocolate to whiskey and substitute Harry Potter audiobooks for therapy.

Yes,” I sighed, craving his cock more than the chocolate waffles I ate earlier.

At the University of Iowa, students were briefly shown numbers that they had to memorize. Then they were offered the choice of either a fruit salad or a chocolate cake. When the number the students memorized was seven digits long, 63% of them chose the cake. When the number they were asked to remember had just two digits, however, 59% opted for the fruit salad. Our reflective brains know that the fruit salad is better for our health, but our reflexive brains crave that gooey, fattening chocolate cake. If the reflective brain is busy figuring something else out—like trying to remember a seven-digit number—then impulse can easily prevail. On the other hand, if we’re not thinking too hard about something else (with only a minor distraction like memorizing two digits), then the reflective system can overrule the emotional impulse of the reflexive side.

For spring and summer, Dina baked delicate and light pastries fragranced with rosewater, meskouta orange bundt cake, and delicate raspberry macarons. When strawberries were in season in early June, she made airy fraisier cake. For autumn and winter, Dina worked with heavier ingredients: thick, dark chocolate, cinnamon, cardamom, gingerbread, and pumpkin. As the days grew colder and the light dimmed earlier and earlier, people started to crave that feeling of warmth and comfort. And Dina would give that to them, even if only for a short while. One special bake for this season was a ginger and persimmon cake, yellowed with saffron strands, which Dina had bought on her last trip to Morocco, and fresh vanilla pods, their sweet scent so potent that it wafted across the café. This was in addition to all the regular pastries and cakes she had on offer, which were all recipes her mother had taught her to bake. The cake made with dark honey from the Atlas mountains was an all-time customer favorite. Dina had imbibed it with a very specific spell, a childhood memory of a time that she must have fallen asleep on a car ride home, and although she was a little too big to be carried, she remembered her father lifting her into his arms, her mother closing the car door softly so as not to wake her, then carrying her upstairs and tucking her into bed. When she'd been fashioning the spell for the first time, it had occurred to Dina that one day your parents put you down and they never picked you up again, and so she'd made the honey cake to recreate that feeling of childhood comfort. That sensation of someone taking the utmost care of you, holding you close, was a feeling that many in the rushing city of London didn't experience often. Sometimes she wondered if she was really in the business of café ownership, or if she was more of a fairy godmother in disguise. Undeniably, the magical pastries were great at keeping customers coming back for more, so that was a bonus on the businesswoman side of things.

A recent study showed that when women crave food, they desire chocolate, but when men crave food, they desire women.

Sweet Tooth   Chocolate tresses cascade down your back, Thick honey and cinnamon reside in your eyes, Strawberry ice cream flavors your lips, And you speak with mint bubblegum replies, You give every piece of your apple pie heart, And heal with your macaroon touch, A caramel kindness fills your soul, And you wonder why I crave you so much. – L.H. @lhoferpoetry

Moments in life are like pieces of fine chocolates in a box. Once you indulge in one piece, you will always crave for another. Whether it's bitter, nutty or sweet.

Elsie caught herself staring at it with a kind of craving that transcended hunger. She knew every cherry dimple, every beautiful chocolate curl. For her, the cake was a reminder of all that had been and a pledge of all that she’d have again.

Double Chocolate Brownies 2 6-ounce bags semisweet chocolate chips 3 tablespoons butter ¾ cup granulated sugar 3½ tablespoons water 2 eggs ¾ cup flour ¾ teaspoon salt powdered sugar 2 cups walnuts or pecans (optional) Preheat oven to 325 degrees. In a medium saucepan, combine 1 bag of chocolate chips with butter, sugar, and water. Cook and stir over low heat. When melted, stir in the second bag of chocolate chips and dissolve/melt into mixture. Next, stir in eggs, flour, and salt. (Optional: stir 2 cups of walnuts or pecans into batter.) Stir the thick, lumpy batter before pouring into (sprayed) 9-inch square pan. Bake for 30 to 35 minutes then set on rack to cool. Top with dusting of powdered sugar. Yield: 1 pan of brownies Donna’s Cook’s Notes I know I don’t look like I eat brownies by the pan full, and I don’t. But if I get a craving and make a pan, I share them with my pals at the station as well as whenever I run into cute paramedics. I always think I might freeze the rest, but that never happens because they disappear before I get around to it. Chocolate Cheesecake CRUST 1¾ cups graham cracker crumbs 2 tablespoons sugar 1/3 cup melted butter ¼ teaspoon salt Combine graham cracker crumbs, sugar, butter, and salt. Press mixture into side of greased 10 -inch springform pan. Chill. FILLING 2 8-ounce packages cream cheese 8 ounces of chocolate chips 2 eggs 2/3 cup corn syrup 1/3 cup heavy cream 1½ teaspoons vanilla Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Cube cream cheese and set aside to soften. In microwave-safe bowl, microwave chocolate chips on high for 1 minute. Stir. If chips aren’t completely melted, microwave for another minute then stir again. Next, in separate mixing bowl, beat eggs, corn syrup, cream, and vanilla until smooth. Slowly add cream cheese cubes. When filling is smooth, slowly

She felt sleep creeping up on her like a relentless tide. She tried to summon up a craving for German chocolates. Or New York traffic. Late-night television. Nope. What she really needed was currently scratching her back with the most careful of scratches, humming an off-key melody under his breath. Jessica smiled.

Essential Ingredients in the Paleo Kitchen   Transitioning to a Paleo lifestyle means that gradually you’ll become familiar with previously unknown ingredients. Stock your pantry with some of the foods from below and you’ll always have something quick and easy to whip up: Frozen broth (for adding to meals in a pinch – see recipe below) Plenty of dried herbs and spices (oregano, black pepper, turmeric and cinnamon are always needed and full of antioxidants) Cans of coconut milk and cream (for soups and smoothies) Coconut oil, olive oil, avocado oil (for cooking and dressings) Fresh lemons Fresh garlic and ginger Fresh herbs such as coriander and parsley (grow some on your kitchen window sill) Avocadoes A jar of tahini (a great peanut butter substitute and salad dressing ingredient) Dijon mustard (for any kind of meat) Honey Crushed tomatoes or tomato puree (avoid those brands in cans) Eggs Greek yogurt (for sauces) A bar of 80% cacao dark chocolate (for when your cravings hit!) Plenty of good quality butter

All the reading she had done had given her a view of life that they had never seen.” “Did you ever read Roald Dahl books in school?” I asked. “Sure, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.” “Right. This tattoo’s from Matilda. I loved that book growing up. Her parents sucked too.

A half century after Nidetch’s Mallomar binges, scientists had developed a technology that could see cravings erupting, like solar flares, inside the human brain. In early 2008, a research team at the Lewis Center for Neuroimaging at the University of Oregon measured just such a craving in a nineteen-year-old college student we will call Debbie. Debbie had her head inside a very large, very expensive round magnet called an MRI scanner when an image of a chocolate milk shake was flashed before her eyes for two seconds. As soon as Debbie saw it, certain parts of her brain became “activated,” which is to say they drew in lots of blood as millions of neurons were fired. These regions—the left medial orbitofrontal cortex, anterior cingulate cortex, and three other small, curly pockets of gray matter—are all associated with “motivation.” And the functional MRI (fMRI) showed them glowing a bright yellowy orange, like coals in a hot fire, indicating those parts of her brain were churning through quite a lot of blood. She was experiencing “incentive salience,” the scientific term for a Frankenstein craving, or a heightened state of “wanting.” Debbie got what she wanted.

For Christ’s sake, the man would leave his house in the middle of the night to bring me iced gingerbread cookies and chocolate milk to satisfy my late-night pregnancy cravings. Call me day or night. I want to know everything.

So, even if the LEP did board my shuttle, they would not find whatever it is I am choosing to smuggle. Which in this case is a jar of chocolate truffles. Hardly illegal, but the cooler is full. Chocolate truffles are my passion, you know. All that time I was away, truffles were one of two things I craved. The other was revenge.

Dinner?" "No." "Jalebi ice cream sandwich?" he called out, referring to one of her favorite childhood treats. Her betraying lips quivered at the corners. "No." "How about a snack? French toast crunch? Scooby Snacks? Trix with extra sugar? Pakoras and pretzels? Roast beef on rye with mustard and three thinly sliced pickles with a side of chocolate milk?" Laughter bubbled up inside her. He had done this almost every day to guess the after-school snack even though she had always taped the weekly family meal plan to the refrigerator door. "Pav bhaji, chaat, panipuri...?" Liam had loved her father's Indian dishes. "I'm not listening." But of course, she was. "Two grilled cheese sandwiches with ketchup and zucchini fries? Masala dosa...?" His voice grew faint as she neared the end of the block. "Cinnamon sugar soft pretzels, tomato basil mozzarella toasts...

Yet it seems possible that one can make too much of the hardships of the soldiers at Gallipoli, or rather there is a danger of seeing these hardships out of their right context. With the mere cataloguing of the Army’s miseries a sense of dreariness is transmitted, and this is a false impression; at this stage life on the peninsula was anything but dreary. It was ghastly but it was not yet petty or monotonous. There can be no fair comparison with the relatively comfortable lives of the soldiers in the second world war, or even with the lives of these men themselves before they enlisted. Gallipoli swallowed them up and made conditions of its own. With marvellous rapidity the men removed themselves to another plane of existence, the past receded, the future barely existed, and they lived as never before upon the moment, released from the normal weight of human ambitions and regrets. ‘It was in some ways,’ Herbert says, ‘a curiously happy time.’ It is a strange remark, but one feels one understands it very well. The men had no cinemas, no music, no radios, no ‘entertainment’ of any kind, and they never met women or children as the soldiers did behind the lines in France. Yet the very absence of these pleasures created another scale of values. They had a sharp and enormous appetite for the smallest things. Bathing in the sea became an inexpressible joy. To get away from the flies, to wash the dust from one’s eyes and mouth, to feel cool again: this was a heightening of sensation which, for the moment, went beyond their dreams of home. The brewing of tea in the evening, the sharing out of a parcel, a cake or a bar of chocolate, the long talks in the starlight talking of what they would do ‘when it was all over’—all these things took on an almost mystical emphasis of a kind that became familiar enough in the western desert of Egypt in the second world war, or indeed on any distant front in any war. There were no pin-up girls; no erotic magazines reached them—they were lucky if they even saw a newspaper from home that was under a month old—and there were no nurses or Ensa troupes. Perhaps because of this the sexual instinct seems to have been held in abeyance for the time, or rather it was absorbed in the minutiae of their intensely friendly life, the generous feelings created by the danger all around them. There was very little vice; ordinary crimes became lost in the innocence of the crime of war itself. Certainly there was no possibility of drunkenness,22 and gambling was not much more than an anaemic pastime in a world where money was the least of things. They craved not soft beds and hot baths but mosquito nets and salt water soap.

Recent studies show that highly processed carbohydrates adversely affect metabolism and body weight in ways that can’t be explained by their calorie content alone. Conversely, nuts, olive oil, and dark chocolate—some of the most calorie-dense foods in existence—appear to prevent obesity, diabetes, and heart disease. In truth, the obesity epidemic is not about willpower or weakness of character. All this time, we’ve been diligently following the diet rules, but the rulebook was wrong!

Love is like a box of chocolates. Take one bite and the craving lasts long enough for the whole box to be eaten.

I head back to my apartment, but not before popping into a small creperie for a Nutella, banana, and coconut crepe because, let's be honest, I'm only human. The shop sits a few doors down from Peregrine Espresso, and even though I spend most days surrounded by flaky croissants and fudge brownies, God help me, I still cannot resist the siren song of a sweet Nutella crepe. I order it to go, but I dive in before I even leave the store because Nutella is my kryptonite. The rich chocolate hazelnut spread oozes from within the sweet eggy crepe, each bite filled with fresh bananas and bits of toasted coconut.

Chocolate’s status as food for girls and women - something to be yearned for and then regretted - is so ingrained that it would be easy to assume that there is something deep within females that makes them crave chocolate.

Strawberry milk,” I say, eyeing him as we head toward the counter. “Really.” He turns to me. “Do you have something to say about my snack selections?” “Nope.” I fall into line behind him. “I just didn’t realize you were a middle-school girl going to a slumber party.” “And I,” he says, plunking his strawberry-fest down on the counter, “didn’t realize you were a soccer mom justifying her chocolate craving with the fact that raisins are a fruit.

She covered the bread dough with plastic wrap and put it in the sun, she pulled out her blender and added the ingredients for the pots de crème: eggs, sugar, half a cup of her morning coffee, heavy cream, and eight ounces of melted Schraffenberger chocolate. What could be easier? The food editor of the Calgary paper had sent Marguerite the chocolate in February as a gift, a thank-you- Marguerite had written this very recipe into her column for Valentine's Day and reader response had been enthusiastic. (In the recipe, Marguerite had suggested the reader use "the richest, most decadent block of chocolate available in a fifty-mile radius. Do not- and I repeat- do not use Nestlé or Hershey's!") Marguerite hit the blender's puree button and savored the noise of work. She poured the liquid chocolate into ramekins and placed them in the fridge. Porter had been wrong about the restaurant, wrong about what people would want or wouldn't want. What people wanted was for a trained chef, a real authority, to show them how to eat. Marguerite built her clientele course by course, meal by meal: the freshest, ripest seasonal ingredients, a delicate balance of rich and creamy, bold and spicy, crunchy, salty, succulent. Everything from scratch. The occasional exception was made: Marguerite's attorney, Damian Vix, was allergic to shellfish, one of the selectmen could not abide tomatoes or the spines of romaine lettuce. Vegetarian? Pregnancy cravings? Marguerite catered to many more whims than she liked to admit, and after the first few summers the customers trusted her. They stopped asking for their steaks well-done or mayonnaise on the side. They ate what she served: frog legs, rabbit and white bean stew under flaky pastry, quinoa.

Gentile believes it’s time for a renaissance in our understanding of mental health. To begin with, just as we can’t accept our body’s cravings for chocolate cake at face value, neither can we any longer afford to indulge the automatic desires our brains harbor for distraction.

Freedom and kindness were the things we craved as much as bars of chocolate and syrup pudding, and it was comforting to know that even in a world full of war, kindness was never too far away.

Oh, nothing! I just wondered if you were having cravings and coming in here for a little bit of illicit time, that’s all.’ ​‘What are you talking about?’ ​She pointed to a small brown stain on Sarah’s shirt, next to her buttons. ‘I thought you’d been eating chocolate in the toilets, that’s all.

Mexican Hot Chocolate Fudge Pops These fudge pops are infused with protein from the silken tofu and egg whites. Flavored with cinnamon and cayenne (just a hint for a little warmth), these are the perfect dessert or snack for when a chocolate craving hits. MAKES 8 POPS  TOTAL TIME: 3 HOURS 20 MINUTES 1 12-ounce block silken tofu 2 ounces high-quality bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped 5 tablespoons confectioners’ sugar 2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder 2 teaspoons vanilla extract ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon ⅛ teaspoon cayenne (optional) ⅛ teaspoon fine sea salt, such as Maldon 2 large egg whites (or equivalent meringue powder if avoiding raw eggs) Pinch of cream of tartar Red pepper flakes or chili powder 1. Drain the tofu: Carefully transfer the tofu to a fine-mesh strainer and drain well. 2. Melt the chocolate: Microwave the chocolate in a small microwave-safe bowl on high power, stopping and stirring every 15 to 20 seconds, until the chocolate is melted and smooth, about 90 seconds. Let cool. 3. Mix the pudding: Transfer the tofu to the small bowl of a food processor. Add the confectioners’ sugar, cocoa powder, vanilla, cinnamon, cayenne, and salt. Process the mixture, stopping the processor to scrape down the sides of the bowl if necessary, until smooth, about 1½ minutes. 4. Add the melted chocolate and blend until smooth, about 15 seconds. Transfer to a large bowl. 5. Form the pudding pops and freeze: In a medium bowl, whisk the egg whites and cream of tartar until firm peaks form, 2 to 3 minutes (easiest done with an electric mixer). Gently fold the egg whites into the chocolate mixture. 6. Divide the pudding among 8 popsicle molds. Use a table knife to remove any large air bubbles. Top off the molds with any remaining chocolate mixture. Tap the molds on the counter to remove any remaining air bubbles. Place popsicle sticks in the molds. Freeze until solid, about 3 hours, or up to 2 weeks. 7. Serve the pops: To serve, run the molds under hot water for 5 seconds to release the popsicles. Dust the popsicles with the red pepper flakes and serve immediately.

The veil between the Living and the Dead drew me in, guided my spirit, deposited me before the welcoming glow of--- I shit you not--- an In-N-Out Burger. Turns out the Afterlife? Where you go when you die? It's a Food Hall. There were good things to eat in every direction. Spirits strolled the streets with the lazy haze of tourists. They ate crepes in waxed paper; they licked swirls of ice cream. They chewed translucent strips of prosciutto folded inside newsprint cones. My stomach growled at the sights; it moaned at the smells. Garlic crisping in foaming slabs of butter. Crusty bread, still steaming from the oven. Glossy discs of chocolate melting over double boil. In the Hall, it was impossible to think about anything but food. Everywhere I looked, something beckoned. And as I passed a storefront--- a sweetshop, the candy arranged in the window like so many jewels--- the cravings won. Just one bite, I thought, and pulled open the door. Inside, on a marble counter, a black box appeared. Nestled inside were four perfect confections--- a sampler surprise. The aroma was decadent--- thick and bittersweet. I didn't even think before shoving one into my mouth. A gourmet peanut cup. Dark chocolate. Crunchy nut interior. Hard, thick outer shell. A bastardization, but enough to trigger a memory so strong I nearly dropped the box. Reese's. Everleigh. Halloween. The whole reason I was there.