Jeweled confection —
how dare we bite in? —
so perfect a morsel,
toothmarks would be sin.
The art of the little,
meticulous craft,
we must linger over,
admire, fore and aft.
From various angles
its magnificence savored,
the eyes are the palate
to guess at how flavored.
To taste with the eye
is the manner of some,
while others prefer
to taste with the thumb.
To find telltale hole,
the proof of the borer,
causes mannered among us
to recoil in horror.
What weaselly ways,
what etiquette lack,
to know what’s inside
and then put it back!
You may recall, dear reader, the indignities of my youth, with blue jeans not allowed. Not proper, said my mother. And yet — and yet! — there were the Fannie May or Mrs. See’s chocolates all pristine in the aerial view, but — what’s this? — a hole in the bottom? A hole which just happens to be the exact same size as my mother’s thumb? This is proper?
Thus did I learn that proper is a relative concept. My mother being the closest of relatives.
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.