I had a special place when I was a kid, called the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory. When I had been extra good, or my parents were in an unusually good mood, we'd go into town and I'd get a treat. Now, I wasn't one to just choose a treat willy nilly. I'd weigh my options, factoring in deliciousness (of course), but also the size and price. The measly little truffles, as good as they may be, weren't worth it. I was only getting one treat and I wanted to make it a good one. I wanted more bang for my parents' buck. More often than not, I'd end up with an Avalanche Bar. A fist-sized square of crunchy, peanut buttery goodness. And I'd enjoy every last bite. Yes, the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory was my special place. And seeing as we lived in the Rocky Mountains, I thought it was a local joint. I was excited when one popped up in the Denver airport (Mom! Dad! But I need a snack for the flight!), but when I spotted one in Florida (of all places), my special place wasn't so special

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