I was a hot chocolate-deprived child—I honestly don’t remember ever having one.
by Jan Hostyn
I’m sure I did, but it was probably the water-plus-hot-chocolate-mix kind that always gets served at outdoor winter events. It was almost undoubtedly served in a Styrofoam cup. Probably completely satisfying at the moment, but also completely forgettable.
My lack of hot chocolate consumption can be directly attributed to my mom. She did not make us hot chocolate. Ever.
That may sound harsh and even a wee bit cruel. After all, hot chocolate is an iconic rite of childhood. But I never felt deprived. She made us something that was, in my opinion, infinitely better.
She made us cocoa.
The process was always the same. She would haul out her big orange pot, one that was exclusively dedicated to cocoa, turn on the stove and get busy pouring and mixing and stirring. In went heaps of cocoa, big dollops of farm honey (never sugar) and generous glugs of milk and cream. Lots of everything—it had to be enough for five kids after all—but nothing was ever measured. She just knew.
Once the cocoa was steaming hot, she would carefully carry the pot to the table (where our five little faces were waiting rather impatiently) and pour it into our waiting mugs. We’d dip our noses down, inhale and savour that first sip before passing around a bag of mini marshmallows. We each plunked exactly ten marshmallows on top (dictated and closely monitored by my mom), and they were the crowning touch. The whole thing was rich and creamy and sweet and absolutely heavenly.
Cocoa was always an event—it was perfect all by itself. But on really special nights, when we were lucky enough to have them, my grandma’s buns shared the spotlight. Three-day buns she called them, and they were white, slightly chewy and sweet and absolutely addictive. We’d slather them with homemade butter and dunk them in our cocoa. They would soak up some of the rich, chocolaty mixture and the warmth would soften the butter. Each bite was exquisite. After the buns were demolished, we’d still have most of our cocoa left, only now it was cocoa with a rich, glossy layer of melt-y butter on it—so good! Ah, the good old days, when I could consume as much butter and cream as my heart desired.
I still drink cocoa. We all do, actually. I’m an end-my-day-with-cocoa kind of person, whereas for two of my sisters it’s a first-thing-in-the-morning kind of thing. Over the years we’ve all revised my mom’s version. Numerous times. One of my sisters ditched the milk for just water before cutting out the honey as well. Not exactly my ideal cocoa, but it made her happy—for a while. She’s now back to honey and milk, albeit nut milk.
My many iterations of cocoa have included cinnamon and vanilla, as well as various types of cocoa. But the version I make now seems to be the keeper: a mix of natural and Dutch process cocoa, honey, skim milk, skim milk powder, a dash of salt (when I remember). That’s it. I’ve never added cream (it seems far too decadent to consume on a daily basis), but the skim milk powder gives it body and a surprisingly luxurious richness.
I’m not sure where my mom’s love of cocoa came from and unfortunately, it’s too late to ask her. I’ve kept up the family tradition by making cocoa for my girls, though. And both of them, now in their twenties, still drink it on a regular basis.
Hot chocolate has its merits (multitudes of them, actually), and I’ve consumed my share of those over the years as well (post-childhood, of course). I’ve had everything from so-so coffee shop renderings to Jacek’s indulgent sipping chocolate to the ultra-thick, rich, almost spoonable concoction at Angelina Paris. And I’ve enjoyed them all, even the so-so ones. They all seem to work in the moment.
Cocoa, however, has cemented its place in my heart as the drink of choice. The memories, the process of making it, that first sip—nothing can ever replace that.