I refer, of course, to Schoc Chocolate, a New Zealand company that makes the most inventive chocolate bars with the most complex flavors I’ve encountered.  I have been hoarding, hiding, and slowly enjoying a  Limi Chilli bar for the last three months, and just now finished the last half-bite.  It was amazing.

Not that you would know, because I didn’t let you have any.

But here’s what you would have experienced, had I not been such an epic dick about not sharing:  a dark chocolate, which slowly starts to melt on your tongue.  Slowly you notice a bright, blindingly fresh lime burst.  Your teeth meet tiny, surprising bit of dried lime zest- the sharp citrus has a strange saltiness, and the unique texture makes you play with the zest on your teeth.  Then, just as the loneliness sets in as the piece disappears, you realize that a slow burn from the chili oil is setting in, balancing the sweetness of the lingering chocolate.

Normally I’m great about sharing my candy.  It’s actually my favorite part of the experience; introducing friends to new flavors, and watching them discover and enjoy my current “favorite.”  But Schoc is different.  My friend Dorothy brought it back for me by request from her family’s trip to New Zealand.  I had been introduced to the bar a year before by Will and Brendan, who had been living there and had been telling me of this company for some time.  Being that it came from halfway across the globe, I did not (and do not) know when I would get my next fix.  So there was no way in hell I was giving anyone a single goddamn bite.

Me.

This bar is so good it made me go Gollum.  I became insanely paranoid about My Precious.  I had it in a hidey hole at work, and ate only a half bite on days when I really needed it, making it last through the harsh winter months.  My co-worker Nick would come by my desk asking if I had any chocolate.  Normally the answer would be yes, but all I had for weeks was this single, special bar that he would never, ever get to taste.  “No!”  I’d say, barely able to moderate my voice to a reasonable volume.  Then, because I’m a terrible liar, I’d need to conversation to be over so he wouldn’t be able to read in my eyes that yes, I had chocolate, and not just any chocolate, but the best chocolate on this earth.  I’d hunch down and become very still, hoping that, like a T-Rex, he wouldn’t be able to see me if I stopped moving.  I hoped he’d then become bored and move along.  If he lingered, I’d try to fake him out with my shitty left-over Pez and send him away.

But now it’s finally gone, so I can speak of it freely, and fondly.  It’s a relief to be rid of it, frankly.  And next time I lose the ability to make eye contact with you?  I’ve probably found a candy mule to bring me another bar.  Please just leave me alone, and I promise I’ll tell you all about it later.