A companion piece to If At First You Don’t Succeed, Try, Try Again
In case you don’t know, and, if so, I feel sorry for you and suggest you immediately rectify the situation, a milano is a type of cookie. Two, oval-shaped, pale cookies held together by a thick layer of chocolate.
The cookies have just a hint of light brown where the dough swirls to a gentle peak.
The smooth, firm milk chocolate interior is just the right balance between the flaky exterior.
As a child, my mother would, oh so occasionally, buy Pepperidge Farm’s Milano cookies.
They came in a white paper bag, a picture of the cookie on the exterior. You unrolled the top, pulled apart the two sides and were immediately hit with the scents of butter and chocolate. Gazing down you spied about five cookies nestled together in white, frilly paper. Underneath, hidden from few, was a second cache with five additional cookies.
I loved them. Milanos. The colors, texture, taste, scent. Before my first bite, I would look to see if the cookies were perfectly aligned or slightly askew. Was there a drip of chocolate on one side?
The promise. The anticipation.
Nothing could be better than enjoying a milano or two.
Seeing my delight, my mother at some point decided to make milanos a more regular treat. And, as their presence in our cupboard grew routine, I enjoyed them less.
Knowing they would be there, I ceased to savor them.
And that’s when I fully understood The Milano Effect.
Some things are meant to be special. Can, in fact, only survive in their full glory when access is limited.
One of my sons loves the chocolate hazelnut spread nutella. I started to buy it more often until he told me that nutella is his milano.
Of course, I immediately understood.
We only have nutella occasionally now. And, when he opens the cupboard and finds it there, the mischievous, happy smile of anticipation on his face is all that I could wish.