The good news about chocolate just keeps melting in. This week, the august European Food Safety Authority (EFSA) gave the nod to Barry Callebaut, the world’s largest chocolate manufacturer, allowing them to claim that cocoa flavanols are good for blood circulation. I wish I could fly to Zurich, the headquarters of Barry Callebaut, to offer my personal congratulations, and to ask for as many samples as they are willing to hand out to a weary traveler. And as long as I was there, I’d also conduct a personal investigation to try to figure out what it is about the Swiss that makes them the world’s whizzes in a trio of seemingly disconnected enterprises: precision watches, secret bank accounts, and divine chocolate. Perhaps the secret link is hidden away in a dossier in a Swiss bank vault, surrounded by priceless specimens of chocolate.

Untold millions of dollars have been invested in the tasty academic discipline of chocolate studies. Happily, each of them has proven an additional health benefit, making dark chocolate pretty darned near a health food. It boosts levels of antioxidants, which in turn gobble up free radicals. And if there’s one thing I think we can all agree on, it’s that there are too many radicals running free. It releases those feel-good endorphins, lowers cholesterol and blood pressure, and now, is known to potentially improve blood circulation. And, while nobody is saying this publicly, eating adequate levels of dark chocolate will keep us from getting too skinny, and therefore less fun to hug. Really, is there anything this superfood cannot do? Thankfully, nobody is throwing good money away trying to prove anything beneficial about milk chocolate, that pasty imposter. Talk about a waste of calories!

Always ahead of the curve in these matters, I have been insuring my own healthy heart and cholesterol levels for years by beginning my day with dark, semi-sweet morsels with breakfast, the perfect complement to my highly charged cup of coffee. And isn’t it delightful that the good news about caffeinated coffee also continues to percolate? Just this week, a new study showed that drinking up to four cups of caffeinated coffee a day could help prevent heart failure. I always knew coffee and chocolate were a winning health team, and I didn’t even go to medical school. I’m sure apples are still good for you, too. But why not bolster their health impact by baking an apple cake riveted with dark chocolate chunks?

Frankly, I think the first 100 studies that revealed dark chocolate’s power to lower blood pressure and cholesterol should have removed all doubt. Maybe people suspected that something that tasted that good couldn’t possibly be good for you. But nobody suspects that about the perfect summer peach, so why was chocolate always suspect? Too bad that money that was lavished on redundant studies couldn’t have been used instead been used to pay for chocolate subsidies — not for manufacturers, but for the common citizen, who could apply those subsidies to upgrade from Hersey bars to Godiva. (Notice that the first three letters of Godiva spell GOD — the only Manufacturer who could have created something so magically delicious.)

The only bad news, for me anyway, is that drinking milk with your dark chocolate can negate some of these other health benefits. Sadly, this means that chocolate chip ice cream may be less of a healthy choice than I have convinced myself it was. But I can work around this, if need be, even if it means I begin experimenting with soy milk at breakfast.

Imagine how healthy I’ll be with my chocolate, soy milk and coffee, perhaps a trio that will one day be revealed as the elixir of youth. Heck, even if it isn’t, those feel-good endorphins in the chocolate and the power surge from the coffee will make me feel invincible – at least for the first few hours of the day.    

In most ways I’m a classic Jewish mother. If I’m cold, I tell my kids to put on sweaters. I make chicken soup on Friday nights. (It’s good and good for you!) I worry more than I should. But I depart from the stereotypes in one significant way: I really am not interested in hearing from my kids every day when they are away at sleepaway camp.

And yet, they call. They call from the bus to tell me they are on the way back from the water park, but the reception is patchy up in the mountains and usually the call breaks up, requiring several more calls to complete the message. They call to say that while the showers are flooding the bunks, they are still having a great time. They call to tell me about the successful outing to Wal-Mart to get fly swatters and candy. They call to tell me which bunk mates are being kicked out of camp for having taken a boat for an unauthorized midnight ride in the lake. They call me when their tummies hurt. 

Look, I’ll match my maternal love for my kids any day with any other mother on the planet. My kids are fabulous, smart, and good-looking (objectively speaking). I am enormously grateful to be their mom. But I had thought that going away to camp meant going away.  In so doing, my urban kids would theoretically revel in the freedom of being in the great outdoors, parent-free for one month. Meanwhile, we parents could learn to cope in a small, measured dose with an empty nest. Sheesh, if they really missed me that much, how come they never listen to me when they’re at home?

When the kids are home in Los Angeles, I worry about them when they are out too late or seem in a deep funk, but I am blissfully worry-free when my kids are at camp — until they call me at midnight from the bus somewhere in the mountains. Then I think: They’re on a dark and windy mountain road! Is the driver responsible, cautious, and still alert at this hour? When they call to report on the bug problem, I think: West Nile virus! Are they using the bug spray I packed? Ignorance is bliss, and I wish I weren’t always so well informed.

Moreover, it turns out I am also expected to email my daughter several times a week. I had thought I was doing something special by writing her a real note card that had to be mailed with a stamp, but this didn’t rate. “All the other parents” are busy emailing their campers, and so must I. God knows what damage I might do to my child if she doesn’t hear from me electronically every 48 hours. Talk about pressure!

The good news is, I absolutely must find something fun to do all by myself, not because I’m bored — just because this way I’ll have something worth sharing on the next phone call.

My dog Ken is not satisfied with resting on the couches of his choice, or the beds made available to him, to maximize his doggy repose during the course of the day. As these photos show, even my new kitchen mat, which is supposed to save my lower back from aching after logging many hours of cooking duty, is something he thinks is his. And as the other photo shows, Ken’s idea of the “downward dog” position in yoga is not quite according to perfect form, and I have had to share my mat with him while doing my routines.

Like other canines, Ken believes that possession is 9/10ths of the law!

No matter the occasion, from births to bar mitzvahs to deaths, we Jews always rush forward with food. Whether in celebration, commemoration, or bereavement, nothing says “Jewish” like food.

One of our lesser known, yet strange and intimidating foods is called cholent (CHO-lent). This is a traditional stew of meat, potatoes, beans, barley, and sometimes, kishke (a sausage casing stuffed with a flour mixture), and has been part of Jewish gastronomy for hundreds of years. Since Jews do not cook on the Sabbath itself, cholent is set to simmer on Friday afternoon in a slow cooker or hot plate. By lunchtime the next day, it is aromatic, soft, filling, and a more powerful sleeping agent than bear tranquilizers.

Jews seem to either love cholent or wouldn’t touch the stuff with a staff as long as that of Moses himself. I myself am militantly anti-cholent, much preferring lighter fare and saving my mega calories for chocolate chip cookies. I take comfort that other cultures have their own intimidating and strange foods. Swedes and Norwegians have lutefisk, a fish that marinates in lye for several days before it is cooked. Scots have haggis, which is sort of like kishke, only made with sheep tummy. And Christians of many ethnicities have fruitcake, which may be the only fitting dessert after a dinner featuring lutefisk.

As a cholent-intolerant wife and mother, I had smugly assumed that my home would always remain a cholent-free environment. I figured, if anyone in the family wanted to eat that heavy, dark, artery-clogging stew, they could help themselves at the synagogue-sponsored kiddush.

But my children had other ideas.

“Why don’t you ever make cholent?” they insisted, demanding I get recipes from other mothers in the neighborhood who dished up cholent as a matter of religious and ethnic pride. I had no answer, other than perhaps I had had a traumatic childhood experience with the stuff.

I didn’t like where this was going. If I caved in to the demands for cholent, could boring old gefilte fish be far behind? On the other hand, I also had to think about our family’s reputation. I was haunted by the idea of my kids overhearing whispers: “Those poor Gruen kids. Their Mom doesn’t make cholent, you know. It’s so sad.”

I finally broke down completely, no longer flagrantly violating the 11^th Commandment: “Thou Shalt Make Cholent!” In submission, I reached for a cookbook and made my maiden batch. The recipe was so easy; how bad could it be?

When I saw the kids pouring mounds of salt, ketchup and hot chile sauce into their bowls, I had my answer. My cooking ego was on the line. I vowed to improve my cholent-making prowess. The next week, I found another recipe and received rave reviews. “Not bad, Mom,” one mumbled. (Bear in mind, coming from a teenager, this is wild enthusiasm.)

Only after lunch did I discover that the successful cholent had been “helped” by my 14-year-old son, who confessed that he had slipped in several ingredients to the pot when my back was turned. Among his additions were “lots more garlic, barbeque sauce, a chicken leg, and some stuff you probably don’t want to know about.” I’m sure he was right.

I happily turned the job of making cholent over to the kids, who had a vested interest in this cholesterol-laden, culinary creation, allowing me to stay focused on making my healthy salads, vegetable sautés, chicken dishes, and cakes. I dare not look at what they throw in the pot.

To humor them, I have begun to take small spoonfuls of it each week, but I find it hard to swallow in more ways than one. And I have to wonder: if this stuff is so great, how come nobody will eat the leftovers on Sunday?

Comic Jimmy Kimmel hit the podium running with laugh lines that mostly found their mark during the White House Correspondents Dinner last night. Warning the president that he was about to be gently skewered, Kimmel looked at him and said, “Cover your ears, if that’s physically possible.”

I was surprised that Kimmel read many of his lines, instead of performing sans script, but he was still a smooth presenter. These were some of my favorite among his jokes, and the audience seemed to agree:  

“There’s a term for guys like President Obama.  Probably not two terms.”

“Nancy Pelosi views lipstick like she views government: too much is never enough.”

“I’d like everyone to look under their seats. You’ll find a copy of Keith Olbermann’s résumé.”

 “Mr. President, remember when the country rallied around you in hopes of a better tomorrow? That was hilarious.”

The president, not exactly known for adept self-deprecation, did a good job with his own laugh lines, which clearly acknowledged his current vulnerabilities. Using humor to deflect problems when you’re in the soup if often a good idea, and Obama used humor to good effect:

“I mean, look at this party. We’ve got men in tuxes, women in gowns, and fine wine. I was just relieved to learn this was not a GSA conference.”

“Now, some have said I blame too many problems on my predecessor … that’s a practice that was initiated by George W. Bush.”

“What’s the difference between a hockey mom and a pit bull? A pit bull is delicious.”

“I had a lot more material prepared, but I have to get the Secret Service home in time for their new curfew.”

Almost all bets are that the campaign will be a nasty one, so it was refreshing if, even for one evening, politics could take a breather with some refreshing humor.

Next Sunday, May 6, is World Laughter Day, so in preparation, here’s a lovely quote:

“Humor is not a trick, not jokes. Humor is a presence in the world, like grace, and shines on everyone.” — Garrison Keillor