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Dear Whittaker’s

Issue 1 | November 1, 2024
Dear Whittaker’s
Erica Challis
Dear Whittakers,
I’m writing to tell you how much I love your little artisan chocolate bars. I think it’s wonderful how you’ve made flavors to suit every occasion. Not just birthdays and Valentines, but also days that are harder, like when you have to pack up a house.
But first things first. Like, if I were writing my gratitudes, the things I’m grateful for — and I do, every day — I’d start with my mum, and how she’d swear by Almond Gold for powering up mountains. She always brought along a monster block. “By god, we knocked the bastard off,” she’d say, grinning, standing high above folded green ridges stretching to the horizon. We’d finish the Almond Gold together, the taste of victory sweet in the mouth.
Though later, resting in a tent by a trickling stream, we’d want something more special. I’ll never forget lying in the down-soft rustle of our sleeping bags, passing Saffron Salted Caramel between us in the dark. Once, a weird joyful cry came from the forest. “Is that a kiwi?” I whispered, “Or just a weka, that robber bird?”
He’d be scheming to add a golden Whittaker’s wrapper to his stash under the matagouri.
I remember when I was first getting to know my boyfriend, and he was knocked off his bike. I visited him with a card and a selection of your beautiful specialty bars. They were ideal for that stage in a relationship before you’re sure of someone’s tastes. They’re chocolates that say, “I’m not just consoling you with a box of Roses Assorted because of those TV ads and that irritating jingle. I really truly care.”
Once you know a person’s preferences, you develop little rituals together. For instance, my boyfriend always opened a bar of Wellington Roasted Coffee Supreme to go with a scary movie. We’d want something to keep our eyes wide open, watching out for The Thing.
For romcoms, we preferred something light and fruity – Fijian Ginger and Kerikeri Mandarin, maybe. We paired four seasons of Lucifer with Samoa Smooth Dark. (He’s a smooth one all right, that Lucifer!) Other streaming series needed more comforting flavors. When winter was coming, we warmed ourselves with Canterbury Hazelnut in Creamy Milk Chocolate.
Sometimes the right choice was… peppermint! Like the time my boyfriend shamed me into cleaning the fridge. (I’m an absolute shocker, I admit, hoarding crusty mustard, expired curry paste, and Mum’s apricot chutney from a tree that’s since been cut down.) So there I was, up to my elbows in suds and swear words, and then I found the bag of peppermint mini-size bars he’d hidden at the back of the fridge. A clean taste, a fresh surprise, the perfect reward for a job well done.
After that, I’d hide peppermint minis for him too. A couple of times I put them under the lawnmower. “You could, you know, mow the lawn,” I’d say, waggling my eyebrows. “Might be something in it for you.”
The rats ate them before he got around to it. Both times we laughed. Small peccadilloes.
Say, that’d be a good name for a Whittakers flavor, right? “Little sins.” His sin was that he was a little bit lazy. And then a whole lot lazy, and then some words we couldn’t unsay.
Because one day I found wrappers in his car for chocolate that he’d never shared with me. Neither of us can stand West Coast Buttermilk, so who…?
After I threw him out, I admit I cheated too. I cheated on you, Whittakers. I tried meditation, then keto, then Crossfit. Of course, the only flavor for Crossfit is chili, which Whittakers don’t make. Chili boosts the metabolism. Feel the burn, baby! So I was a Lindt girl for a while. All Swiss sophistication and whipcord muscles. One look at my new hotness would destroy my ex without a single word.
We saw each other in the street. His new girlfriend was easily six inches taller than me and walked in high heels like a gazelle. Her hair was abundant, like a smooth pour of caramel down her back. That was the only abundant thing about her. I don’t imagine she’s any kind of chocolate loyalist unless you’re planning a kale-based range.
Sorry, I’m a bitter bitch to blame anything on her. Sisterhood is strong, and all that. Ha! I wish.
Anyway, it was his choice. I admit I was too absent. Distracted. Wrapped up in myself and my worries. My darling, daring Mum was ill.
So I ditched Crossfit since the New Me turned out to be just a somewhat smaller Old Me. These days I load the supermarket trolley, laughing with the cashier. “Yes, of course, I’m not eating it all myself. Me and the girls are settling in for a night of chocolate, chick-flicks, and chardonnay! We call it Estrogen Island.”
If I’m going to lie, I should go in boots and all. I could go to a wholesale supplier and buy a crate of Whittakers. I could claim I’m a wedding planner. I like to imagine I could be decisive, competent, snapping orders at my minions. “It’s high stakes,” I’d remind them tersely, rapping my rose-pink nails on a spreadsheet. A destination wedding, the bridesmaids have booked a whole island for the weekend, how much chocolate do I need for that?
A sack of chocolate bigger than my head, a slab as big as a table.
Now this story’s spinning off where I least want to go. I don’t know what flavors would appease the queen of Bridezilla Island. I’m not a wedding planner. There is no wedding, though my mother certainly hoped to see one.
For her, I bought artisan blocks of your darkest chocolate. Ghana Intense Dark, 92 percent cocoa. “I don’t need sweetness now,” she’d say. “I’ve had my share.”
The perfect flavor for every occasion.
It was the richness she liked, I think. The way it dissolved on the tongue, melting like memory. When she couldn’t do it herself, I would put a square in her mouth, then another. Towards the end, when her senses were fading one by one, she could still taste. The last muscles she could control were the ones that formed her smile.
One more piece. One more smile.
Dear Whittakers, I have only one complaint.
Your chocolate bars are too small.
New Zealand writer Erica Challis left a career as an orchestral musician to become a journalist and publicist. She was an editor and essayist for The People’s Guide to J
R R Tolkien, published by Cold Spring Press. Her short stories have appeared in
New Zealand literary and popular magazines such as 4th Floor, Turbine, Takahe, and
North&South, and the online zine Lemon&Lime. Her scripts and readings are
regularly broadcast by Radio New Zealand Concert. She has a Masters in Creative
Writing from the International Institute of Modern Letters, Victoria University of
Wellington, Te Herenga Waka.