Well, They Say It Goes Straight To Your Hips

Earliest archaeological evidence traces chocolate back to Central America sometime around 1100 BC where it was consumed not as a candy bar, but as a beverage. Far from the sweet treat we know today, the Aztecs imbibed xocolātl, or “bitter water,” a concoction of crushed cacao beans, annatto, chili powder and other spices muddled in warm water.

Following its appropriation by Spain in the 16th century spices were removed from the xocolātl recipe and milk and sugar were added to the mix to counteract the cacao bean’s natural bitterness. Ere long, "hot chocolate" was melting hearts all over Europe and the chocolate pot became de rigueur. Designers stepped up to produce some of the most elegant specimens out of porcelain and precious metals.

For all their efforts, sometimes it can be difficult to tell the difference between a chocolate pot and a coffee pot. Check out this fine silver chocolate pot from the online catalogue of Nelson & Nelson Antiques and pay particular attention to the spout. Due to the viscosity of its intended contents the chocolate pot usually has a shorter spout while the coffee pot has a longer spout that occasionally comes equipped with a filter. Most chocolate pots have a horizontal handle and a vertical stir stick. In this case, the hinged berry finial can be removed to make way for the molinet.

Anyway, I thought hot chocolate would be the perfect treat to take on my recent skating date with the Luckhurst clan but since Emily is still trying to keep the kids away from both dairy and sugar I opted for a good old-fashioned xocolātl instead. Dagoba’s prepackaged variety is no longer available (has it been discontinued or are they just out of stock?) so I whipped up a batch to my own taste loosely based on Uncle Phaedrus’s "cacahuatl" recipe. I woke up early on New Year’s Day and filled a whole fat thermos with my spicy elixir before heading down to Rockefeller Center.

Surprisingly the kids wanted nothing to do with the xocolātl - their mugs went cold on the bench. I suppose they were keen to hit the ice. Emily blew on her mug and sniffed it tentatively. Her brow furrowed, “Is there nutmeg in this?”

“Hm-m. That could be the achiote oil.”

She sipped it politely and took in a sharp breath of winter air. She then moved on to the tiresome subject of her romantic woes and seemed to forget all about the mug in her hands. “More for me!” I thought, and poured myself a second cup.

Eventually, with arms extended and ankles sagging, I joined the flock of besweatered couples out on the ice. Despite a close brush with a miniature Bobby Orr and the distracting feats of the ice nymph I circumnavigated the rink thrice without a single spill. It was exhilarating! I collapsed on the bench and, in all my excitement, downed the last of the xocolātl before hugging Emily, waving goodbye to the children, and heading off for home.

Long story shortened: I took ill partway home and was forced to make boom in a department store restroom. Then, upon exiting the stall, I slipped in a large puddle of pink soap, went arse over chocolate pot and smashed my hip on the marble floor.

Now I’m laid up in bed with an aching frame and an unsightly tri-colour bruise. The doctor has assured me that no bones are broken. “Nothing a good solid week of bed rest can’t fix,” she said. "Well, Happy New Year to me!" I thought. Oh, so be it. I’ve got a large supply of chamomile tea and I’m eager to crack open the anagram puzzle book that I got for Christmas. Who knows? I may even get around to reading Middlemarch.