What would Wonka call it?

When I was a child, I went to a summer wedding reception. Most kids hate these things. With nerves not dulled by years, worries and the attenuation of age, kids always tend to absorb anything, in the situation, which engages their senses.

The scene was permeated with nostalgic wedding music, blended with the stumbling murmur of adult conversation and muted laughter. There was a steady background chorus of beer tab pops and the wind chime twinkle of ice, spinning in clear amber and dark milky drinks. Red straws marked the landscape in places where the sharp fumes of scotch, bourbon and brandy were blooming out. This was a tiered landscape of slate wall tops, wire framed chairs, and the smoky, bubbly surface of patio table glass.

With summer leather skin, glistening in the tropical reek of Coppertone marinade, the adults would approach with arms outstretched. They pinched your cheeks with bony fingers that had twisted lemon and lime wedges and juggled powdered wedding pastries. They would bend down and kiss you with bright waxy lipstick, venting dragon's breath laced with garlic, stale cigarettes and the ubiquitous cocktail.

In this purgatory of childhood boredom, I encountered a dessert, I have never been able to name.

It looked like brownies at first. And, please, no jokes about those special brownies we have all heard of. These did not belong to a category frowned on by the Federal government. In fact, this dessert only resembled brownies from a distance.

This wonder started life as hard baked sponge. This must have been dessicated in a slow heat, purging all moisture, leaving a dark tan mummified crisp. The rigid template, which would be humble and unremarkable by itself, was then draped in a cascade of warm chocolate. The fluid permeated the entire crisp bubbled lattice. The confection was then entombed by a chocolate caramel cloak. This was cooled to a chewy membrane, which to the casual eye, only
hinted the nature of the texture beneath.

In this deceptive attire, the hard sponge was transformed. When you bit into it, it would yield like honeycomb swollen with honey. The nerves of your mouth would instantly retreat in the bittersweet liquor of rich chocolate, sugar, butterfat and flavors. The astringent aroma would rush up your sinuses, begging tears to form. Once enticed, your mouth would race back from the pucker and bath itself in the flavor and texture of the dessert. Everywhere your tongue probed the morsel, it would collapse, releasing the pores filled with chocolate glory.

This was the kind of experience to widen a child's eyes. It stifled all the distracting intrusions of the adults. The next time you see a child at a wedding party, transfixed on a dessert, licking fingers in silence, ask them if they liked it. And please, give their mother the recipe.