Living off the (chocolatey) fat of the land

I struggle with self-denial pretty much constantly and am in love with anything that makes me feel less guilty about it. Spending money on food, especially coffee and chocolate (often synonymous, in my limited coffeeshop lingo), is a particular weak spot.

Thus, the idea of living for an entire month on only the chocolate I can forage from the land. For 30 days, no new purchases of baked goods, chocolate bars, beautiful desserts from the Stumbling Goat. Note that this was not a vow to stop EATING chocolate. Just to stop BUYING it. Which I do compulsively.

How compulsively? Here's an informal inventory of chocolate on hold in my home:

Two Lindt bars with chili (Christmas gift).

Half a Green and Black's "Maya Gold" bar (came with my subscription to Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet, before the Ikea bar they sent, which I just threw away -- really? Ikea?).

Almost or just over one-half a Ritter dark-chocolate-and-hazelnut bar. I broke it into chunks, so I can't be sure.

Four Andes mints, origin unknown.

Three approximately one-cup servings of chocolate-chip cookie dough (frozen and, due to a butter mix-up, inedible except in emergencies).

One box of Thin Mints (also frozen).

One small loaf of banana bread with chocolate chips (frozen) (yes, frozen), about which I feel slightly guilty because it was made by a dear friend and usually I inhale the bread within a day, but this time I thought I'd be virtuous and freeze it, and now it just helps hold my gin in place.

One brownie from Simply Desserts, purchased, along with a piece of cake, after the resolution to buy no more.

Doesn't sound too bad? This is just the rejects -- most of these items have been hanging around for months, waiting for their turn in the limelight. These are the dustmice of desserts. The Jennifer Anistons among the chocolatey Angelina Jolies that I pursue daily.

Previous to making this list, my plan was to try to live off the chocolate of the land -- only desserts scavenged from workplace spreads, free samples, offerings from friends. Now that I see the inventory, I think one month may not be enough. It might take me a month just to work through the velvet.

Note that this just what I can see from my laptop at home. Gifts of chocolate have become the primary form of caretaking from friends and co-workers. Some days, small piles of the stuff gather in my office, encouraging me to choose between the guilt of eating it all and the guilt of not eating it all.

Tomorrow, an inventory from the office -- and a shocking continuation to my litany of sin.

Onward!