Chocolate Mole

Of my three children, the little artist, is the one most interested in food. From the time she was an infant, we knew not only that she was a deeply sensitive person, but that food was very important to her. She had great high-chair manners, which is to say she loved eating and did not think of edibles as projectiles or other such frivolity. No, food was definitely more than utilitarian; it was meant for enjoyment as well as comfort.

Her siblings have always taken a kind of squeamish delight in her willingness to try different foods: Sushi, edemame beans, brussel sprouts, brown rice, tamales... anything! Her older brother calls her what he thinks is a bad word: “Con-A-Sewer.”

Last week walking past her room, I noticed her sitting on the bed with her shirt pulled up. I stood and watched a moment, wondering what she was doing. With her left hand, she held her shirt up to her chin. With the right hand, she used her long, delicate, index finger to explore a newly appeared brown spot on the side of her belly. This went on for a few minutes. Then, as if catching a glimpse of some long hidden truth of the Universe, an involuntary giggle escaped her lips. She looked up at me with a face full of delight, pointed to the new little mole and exclaimed, “Look Mommy! Chocolate!”