The way she made a hot chocolate, the cold was almost worth it.

Into a mug, she would spoon Nestle Carnation Rich. And some table cream. And on special occasions a few drops, not much more, of Kahlua. And a little table cream. I would love to watch the chemical reaction. The cream and the Kahlua vibrating, swirling.

She had a knack for getting the water when it was hot but just before the kettle would whistle. “Hot. Really hot, but not quite boiling,” she explained. She poured it into the mugs. Mine first. She never let me stir. She had whipped cream she would put on top. She would say, “if you’re spoiling yourself, you might as well do it right.” She had chocolate sprinkles, just for me. She put cinnamon on hers.

Meanwhile, some toasted bread, spread with butter not margarine, and cut into strips for dipping. I never would have thought of that. She would drink hers too fast and dip her toast strips in my cup and laugh.

I’ve tried to recreate it. The hot chocolate. The toast, even. I don’t know why I bought the kind of hot chocolate with Marshmallow. By the time I’ve stirred it, the little white sugar chunks have melted.

It doesn’t taste the same, though, without her. It doesn’t warm me where I’m cold.

SS