I love you. A lot. Really. Given the way I’m physically drawn to you when I walk through the mall, you may well have your own gravitational pull. I turn to you for ice cream starter when I’m feeling too lazy to make a custard, mechanical pastry bags when I want to try my hand at cake decorating, and pastry blenders when I discover that my food processer isn’t large enough to make pie crust and, in a rare moment of fiscal responsibility, realize that perhaps buying a new food processer is not the answer. I love your French pop-up kitchen sponges. I have a favorite clerk; we trade recipe tips and he believes me when I tell him that you already have my e-mail address on file, and in fact I’m there that day because I saw something I must have in an e-mail that morning, and so I really don’t need to spell the address out for him. But not even I, Williams-Sonoma, will spend $26 on three 3.5 ounce vintage milk chocolate bars, where “vintage” = “packaged in old-timey looking wrappers.”
Not. Even. I. I may be a girl, but I’m good enough at math to know that that’s nearly $2.50/ounce. I don’t care if it is Belgian. No.