Christmas is over. The refrigerator bulges with leftover food which will probably go bad before we have a chance to eat it all. The floor is littered with toys which will need to have places found for them in bedrooms, shelves, and closets. There is also a giant mixing bowl full of candy. Too much candy actually. Long ago, my wife and I knew to stop buying candy for the boys on holidays, since their grandparents usually end up doing exactly that. The worse offender by far is my own mother, ironically a diabetic. When we were kids, every Christmas morning we would find a sandwich baggie crammed full of red and green M&Ms, kisses, and various festively wrapped peanut butter cups and chocolate Santas. Where she was generous with GIVING these treats, we were always tightly regulated as to when and how much we could have, so that baggie would last some time….at least until we got older and started to sneak some on our own.
Now that I have sons of my own, that baggie still exists, but now its given to the boys.
I don’t mind that all so much as I do the candy canes.
As mildly irking as my mother plying the boys with chocolate is, my mother-in-law’s offense is worse. Every year, for reasons I cannot fathom, she sees fit to supply us with an entire box of a dozen or so candy canes.
Candy canes, in my opinion, are the worst excuse for candy that the world has ever seen. Consider the fact that people often would rather decorate with them than actually eat them.
Giving someone a candy cane says “I thought about you long enough to give you some garbage.”
Giving someone a box of candy canes says “I hate you.”
Tasty though they may be for a moment or two, the stickiness, the constant “don’t lick that down to a sharp point” pleas, the need to immediately brush your teeth, the cling-film wrapper that sticks to you better than it does the candy itself….none of it is worth the effort.
Our cabinet still holds a box from last year, that has never been opened. This year’s mixing bowl holds twelve new ones, from under which the good candy will be picked at until nothing remains but the red and white striped garbage wrapped in cellophane. They’ll then be put in a cabinet and forgotten about until next year, when they’ll be joined by a dozen new ones. By the time we move from this house or die, the cabinet will probably have been designated “Garbage can #2” and hold nothing but these nuisance ‘treats.’
Occasionally, The Narrator will eat one. Or I’ll get clever and throw one into hot chocolate, but by and large, they’ll never get eaten and I’ll never understand the point of them at all.