Tsokolate! (with exclamation point)

Tsokolate comes to mind with cooler weather, during Christmas, or when there’s a surplus of bready it …
Say each syllable quickly like a staccato beat: cho-koh-la-teh-eh! with the accent on the "eh" thus my exclamation point. It's Filipino thick hot chocolate, specifically made with tablea, (tab-LAY-ah; tableya), or cacao balls. Tablea comes in flat or thick disks and even squares, but balls are the most common shape, sweetened or not. It's made from cacao and is traditionally mixed with crushed peanuts which add a pleasant grittiness and nutty flavor. The ingredients are ground together to form a thick paste and aside from the usual ball shape, can be kept in bottles for several months.

The chocolate ball tastes like its smell – earthy, redolent of coffee fields, cocoa beans, and sugar.
Tsokolate comes to mind with the advent of cooler weather, during Christmas, and whenever there's a surplus of bready items in the house. My ideal tsokolate is brown as earth and thick enough to dip bread or cake into. The chocolate ball tastes like its smell — earthy, redolent of coffee fields, cocoa beans, and sugar. When I dare to, there's a pungent top note of chocolate that crumbles on the tongue, crunches down into sugar, and then a smoky interplay of cocoa and earth. It's also slightly pasty on the palate.

The motion is simple but elusive: it’s rubbing your hands together while holding the batidor.
Everybody has their own way of cooking tsokolate. Depending on the size, I use 2 tableas crushed down into just enough water to dissolve and then I add three-fourths of a cup of milk, that's good for one person. If it's a paste, I'll use two heaping tablespoons. Of course using more tableas per cup of milk would naturally yield a thicker, richer drink. I used to use fresh milk until I discovered what everybody else already knew - that evaporated milk yields a thicker, more desirable consistency.

Tip: evaporated milk yields a thicker, more desirable consistency.
I stir the liquid in a pot over medium-high heat, gently mashing the chocolate so that it will melt evenly. Beads of sweat slide down the sides of my face. As I keep on stirring to prevent the mixture from scorching, I realize that I'm getting a food facial (always a good thing) from the steam arising from the pot, the aroma of nuts and coffee washing over me.
Traditionally, native tsokolate is made by pouring hot water and the tsokolate paste into a tsokolateria, and then using a batidor to allow the mixture to foam. A batidor is that wooden beater used for whipping hot chocolate into a tizzy, thus achieving that much desired froth and foam. I have a collection of these wooden implements, all bought with the hope that one day, I'll be able to use them effectively. The motion is simple but elusive: it's rubbing your hands together while holding the batidor. I've watched other people in awe as they wield that wooden stick, the liquid just frothing up beneath their hands' harried motion. I think that I've given up trying to learn and acceded to making froth the modern way: with an immersion blender.
Of course what's a cup of tsokolate to do without a (dipping!) partner? It's best with pan de sal, ensaymada, and yes, even cake. As I sip the tsokolate, it tastes of many things: earth, charred wood, but most of all, the melding of chocolate and sweet. Tsokolate is a marriage of the field and earth: just add sugar and stir.