The mysterious allure of knobbly gold-chocolates

Perhaps it's the same elsewhere, but France's supermarket shoppers seem obsessed with Ferrero Rocher. We usually receive a box or two from Mark's piano students, but this year there were many boxes under the tree, including the most landfill-esque version we have yet seen: a giant, thick plastic cone, I suppose meant to resemble a diamond . . . this shouldn't be allowed under packaging laws - if any actually exist.

                                               

Amongst the many mysteries in the world sit questions surrounding F.Rocher: why do people buy them? They taste like . . .well, a blob of Nutella with sand in it. The actual nut is fine, but I'd rather just have a bag of hazelnuts and forget the sugar, gold foil and gleaming plastic.
It's kind of people to give Mark a present after a year of lessons, but why not other chocolates? Our biggest local supermarket had a chocolate section far bigger than the fruit and veg area; towering displays of everything from milk/dark selection boxes to chocolate covered hamsters, so why purchase F.R? Is it the marketing? the safety in buying something that is recognised/everyone will like (not); the price? - I had a look out of curiosity, and, nope, lots more quality-branded stuff at similar or cheaper - so . . . I think it must be a present list thing - check list: ah yes, fifteen presents to buy for not immediate friends or family, "grab fifteen boxes, Anton," done.
Other chocolates sitting about in the house call out: "Eat me . . . come on, you know you want to." But the Nutella blobs don't have this effect on me, or on other members of the family (maybe the dogs, but I haven't offered them any, hounds being allergic to choc apparently). Mark half-heartedly ate one or two, but the boxes were destined to stay un-opened/be re-gifted until we had an idea of creating a festive pud with them, as no-one had got around to making a more traditional one.

So: Ferrero Rocher red fruit and custard surprise.

Get a big bowl, put knobbly chocs and cream in and beat (I liked this bit) with a rolling pin, put in glasses, add a layer of red fruits, a layer of crême anglaise and a blob of cream on top.

  

                             

Oh no . . . it's time to be happy.

But . . . it's too early, I want to be miserable for at least another month.
It's sad, but France seems to be catching up with America and the UK - Christmas shite in full stockage at Leclerc yesterday. I only went in to get some dog food and a packet of yeast but had to get through an assault course of chocolate and bauble nonsense to get to the sensible areas of of the shop.
I'm still in shock that people were there picking up plastic Santa Clause effigies and tins of nasty looking fois gras as if there was about to be a war and thus a shortage of these essential items.
What would Christmas be without matching gold-starred plates and glasses, and without a box of Ferrero Rocher as big as a sofa. By the way, who eats these things? They appear to be made of recycled loo roll inners and Nutella. Mark's just told me that FR own Nutella, so no surprise there. In fact it's worth reading a story in the Guardian yesterday about Nutella and palm oil (which makes up 20% of it's bulk). Apparently 235,000 tons of the stuff are consumed each year. The fact that 100 million pots are consumed annually in France alone has alerted the government to consider a 'fat tax' - the wonderfully named, 'Nutella amendment'.
FR is a marketing hype success story beyond all others, remember the adverts . . . how to sell something utterly . . . dull, very very well. Environmental packaging nightmare too. RANT over now . . . where was I? Oh yes, Christmas. I noticed our town have started putting the decorations up a little earlier each year, but so far nothing is illuminated until December itself; I hope this is going to be the case this year. Any sniff of a suspended jolly lightbulb before that and I shall be writing to the council. Huh!
Actually, I love Christmas - well, the day itself, possibly the day before and even the day after. A small isolated patch of time where the phone doesn't ring much and going out for a nice brisk walk all wrapped up seems even better than usual. Lovely food, fire, slippers, carols, and joy to all men, even that git who drives a Ferrari up our tiny road at 120 kms an hour. Apart from that it should all stay in a box in the attic until next year.
May all your Christmas's be white and not vaguely grey and drizzly.