Dirty Little Secret #33

Over the past four days, I consumed an entire bag of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.

By myself.

I suppose I might feel disgusted with myself, and slightly guilty. But I've decided to chuck all that in favor of letting the self-soothing - if slightly despicable - ritual bring me closer to my dead father.

Yes. That same dead father whose specter can't be shaken.

He loved Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. My mother went through the motions of hiding them, always in the cupboard above the refrigerator. Arriving home from the grocery store, she would stand on a chair and toss the bags in, saying "your father complains that there's not enough chocolate in the house, but it's really no good for him."

Each night, not long after the doorknob turned and his footsteps made landfall in the kitchen, you could hear the cupboard door creak open. He would rustle among the discarded wrappers in the bag, and pull out a handful. If he were dieting, he would limit himself to one, maybe two.

Dad preferred the mini-peanut butter cups. You know, the kind that are tiny and deep. But I don't know - the ratio of chocolate to peanut butter is all wrong for me. I need the classic: round and flat. More peanut butter than chocolate. But I never asked him. Maybe he didn't care. Maybe it was all my mother bought. Maybe he suffered silently for years, longing for the bigger model.

If he were here, I'd ask. He'd pull down his half-rims and look at me over the top. "What the hell's the matter with you?" He'd chuckle. "I don't know, I just like them."

I just like them, too.