Willy Wonka should really drag his carcass down here to Alabama. I could use his help in the candy kitchen. And he should bring along a carload of those little Oompa Loompa's with him. I have discovered that actual skill is required to make candy. And I do not possess it.
Those little orange faced dudes in Wonka's candy factory have it all over me when it comes to their secret chocolate making skills and I'm not afraid to admit it.
At first, I thought it was my lack of sufficient estrogen that was the problem. Then, after my good friend Sophie came over to lend a hand, I realized there were hidden steps to creating chocolate snacks that eluded me completely.
Martha Stewart doesn't have to put up with this crap!! Come to think of it, neither does Willy Wonka. I'll bet not one single Oompa Loompa has ever had a chocolate meltdown over candy catastrophe. That's because from the moment they were saved from the rotten, Vermicious Knids and snozwangers they have been entrusted with Wonka's most dear candy making secrets. And Oompa Loompa's are notoriously tight lipped unless they are singing about how bratty your kids are when they come to visit the factory with their Golden Ticket and their attitudes.
Alas, I seem to be missing my Golden Ticket. I've checked all of my pockets. So far, I have come up with a lint ball the size of New Jersey, three gum wrappers from a flavor I don't chew (who has been using my jacket?) and a sticky residue that I am just not willing to contemplate. Therefore the unmistakable conclusion bears down upon my tired mind. I'm now reasonably sure that the fine art of edible chocolate goodness will always have to be purchased instead of made by my pitifully unskilled hands. Why didn't my genealogy reveal Oompah Loompa ancestry? Or that Willy Wonka is my 4th great uncle twice removed?
The good news is that every single failed chocolate that gave its life in the attempt at creating wedding candy didn't die in vain.
We ate them. It was the kindest thing to do. Really.
To have thrust their mangled forms onto wedding guests would have been both unnecessarily cruel and also put a serious pall on the joyful events as the guests would be compelled to create complementary phrases to describe said candy without creating offense.
"Yes, the candy was . . . uh, a form of . . . art. Yes, ART!"
"Oh, I don't eat candy. Ruins my teeth..."
"Don't you hate it when the caterers make a mistake on such an important event?"
We shall accept their pity without reservation. I'll be the one wearing the shopping bag over my head because they won't be able to look into my eyes and KNOW that I am the candy murderer.
The Candy Man can . . . so where is he when I need him?
WILLY WONKA! WHERE ARE YOU???
