Nutella, don't sue me.

Nutella is to the Italians what Windex is to the people in My Big Fat Greek Wedding. The solve-everything magical elixir of the gods. Got a leak in your roof? Nutella that sucker. Lollipop not up to par? Nutella that sucker. Note that I've also instantly turned Nutella into a verb.
In what I like to refer to as the "post-war years," those terrific years after parents get divorved, but before you've got the means to truly escape, and you're left to your own devices (in my case a blue Huffy bike and my friend Joseph's Nintendo), my sister and I would spend weekend with my father, taking the harrowing bus ride into downtown New London, where our short yellow bus was used for target practice by the local gangs. Yes, my friends, I have often spoke of the fact that we all are relegated to the short bus at some point in our lives. This was my time. And I short-bussed the hell out of those Fridays.
But I digress. My sister and I would awake on Saturday morning to our ritual of opening the doors of the 9-foot pantry, to gaze upon such appetizing items as a 5-pound can of Montreal steak seasoning, a mostly-full tub of Crisco, a loaf of bread old enough to prove that the color blue (and fuzzy blue at that) CAN in fact grow in places other than a blueberry bush, and....Nutella.
My sister would dart in and grab her usual breakfast: a packet of Swiss Miss, which she would eat dry, by licking her finger and sticking it in the powder. and she attacked that thing like it was going out of style, or maybe because she thought that I had been dropping the same acid as her, and therefore would have an similarly extreme craving.
So eventually, after experimenting with a spoonful of Crisco sprinkled liberally with Montreal steak seasoning (which is better than you would expect), I decided to give this Nutella a go. And lo and behold...it's not all chocolate. There's this bit of hazelnut. Fine. Not really my bag, but I've learned to respect and appreciate the existence of many things that I may not truly care for, and so Nutella kind of fell on the same level as, well, all the other foodstuffs in that cabinet. I found out later that this sinister look-alike to real chocolate was made hazelnuts were added to chocolate because cocoa was being rationed during World War 2. Great tidbit. I like my posts to have at least a tiny bit of actual information.
Many years past, but, following in the great writing style of the Bible, you don't have to worry about those.
I find myself in a Pasticceria in Parma, purchasing a cake. I've got enough Italian under my belt to clearly ask if the one I'm interested in is entirely chocolate, real chocolate, and the lady who works there is acting enough like a bobblehead doll for me to believe her. So I tuck that chocolate puppy under my arm, and head home. You already know where I'm going with this. First bite, I'm right back in my post-war years, hating Nutella, and convinced that my parent's divorce was all my fault. You suck, Nutella cake. You taste like pain.
And in case you haven't noticed Italy: THE WAR IS OVER. You can go back to full-on chocolate now. None of this hazelnut crap....please. You've already brainwashed innocent pastry-shop workers with rubber necks to think that "chocolate" is spelled "Nutella." Don't you have enough hazelnut things? Ferrero Rocher, Baci....we get it. Hazelnut and chocolate works, in small amounts. Reese's blessed us with the magical combination of chocolate and peanut butter, but you don't see us shoving it down people's throats and calling that chocolate, do you? DO YOU?
Thank you for your time.