Sweet Solution

"Chocolate solves everything,” I always told myself. Whenever I was stressed, I’d eat chocolate. And lately I’d been eating a lot of it, I thought, polishing off the last pecan turtle from the dish on our counter.

The strain on our family had started a year and half earlier, with the events of September 11, 2001. I never would’ve guessed then how the aftershocks of that tragedy would reverberate from its epicenters in New York City and D.C. to our small town in New Hampshire.

My husband, Peter, and I had settled contentedly into life in Peterborough. It was a big change from our early years together as an airline pilot and flight attendant, but one we were grateful for. I’d left my job when we started our family. We lived well enough on Peter’s income as a pilot. I was a stay-at-home mom to Landon and Ava Marie—hosting playdates, going to PTO meetings, chaperoning class trips—and I loved it.

Then came 9/11. Peter was deeply shaken by what had happened to the pilots and crews of the downed planes. His airline provided counseling, but every flight became a test of nerves. Even my prayers that his fears ease didn’t help. One day he called me from work. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said, his voice raw, broken.

Doctors diagnosed anxiety and depression. Peter was put on medication and grounded. Now our kids had two stay-at-home parents. It was good for them to have their dad around more. He took over some of the carpooling and shopping, so I had more time to myself.

More time for worrying, that is. About Peter—it was heartbreaking to see my confident husband so discouraged. About our finances—the disability payments wouldn’t last forever and didn’t match the regular paychecks that had covered our mortgage, health insurance and other expenses. We’d already had to dip into our savings. Would I have to go back to work as a flight attendant? In this economy? Be away from Landon and Ava Marie when they were only seven and four? I had visions of losing our house, being forced to give up our idyllic, small-town existence. I could barely sleep I was so stressed.

In the old days, I would’ve dropped by a gourmet chocolate shop wherever Peter and I had flown. Every city has its signature chocolate. Whatever the specialty—turtles, truffles, cherry cordials—one taste, and my worries would fall away. Chocolate was always the sweetest answer of all to prayer.

These days there weren’t any fancy, handmade chocolates within an hour’s drive. I’d gotten so desperate I started making them myself, experimenting with recipes. Even though Peter and the kids liked taste testing, I probably shouldn’t have been spending money on things that weren’t absolute necessities. But I couldn’t help myself. I kept thinking chocolate.

Now, staring at our empty candy dish, I pictured it filled again. With truffles, this time. I took out the ingredients. Bittersweet chocolate. Cream. Butter. Hazelnuts, for extra flavor. Soon the kitchen was filled with the rich aroma of melting chocolate. I stirred it, inhaling deeply. I chopped the hazelnuts then laid out wax paper on the counter. When the chocolate was cool, I dropped it by the spoonful onto the paper. I rolled each round into a smooth ball. The finishing touch? A coating of chopped hazelnuts. I paused for a moment to admire my handiwork. Then I heard Peter’s footsteps in the hall, and reality sank in again. Lord, I used to think chocolate solved everything. But it’s not going to pay bills or get Peter off disability. Please help us find a way through this crisis. A solution that’s right for our family.