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(post, Giovanna Zivny)

My parents brought a jar of gianduja back from one of their trips when I was in high school.  It was a beautiful one, with the chocolate and hazelnut pastes marbled and mingled.  They put it on a shelf in the cupboard and then never opened it.  Ever.  It was next to the can of kangaroo soup my uncle in Australia had sent us 5 years earlier.

For a long time I waited, and finally, when I just couldn't stand it anymore, I opened the gianduja.  I had a spoonful, and the next day another.  Pretty soon I'd eaten most of the jar, but I'd carefully avoided scraping the sides.  The jar looked full, but felt very light.  

For a few months that jar haunted me.  Fear that my parents would discover it, and guilt that I'd eaten it all.  Not to mention sadness that I couldn't eat anymore of it without being found out!

Of course, when they finally did realize, they were amused more than anything. 

I learned nothing from this experience.  If I were left in a house with an unattended jar of gianduja I'd eat it on the sly, spoon by spoon.