i can eat just one more, right?
The aftermath is upon me. Christmas is over. I have waded through mounds of gift wrap and tinsel, I have conquered and buried the tree to the dismay of a blond, wet-eyed little girl. I survived meal after delicious, gravy-dripping meal, for days on end. My children are somewhat caught up on their sleep. Aside from the expanded heap of toys in the basement there is little evidence to suggest that this home and family have just made their way through a major holiday.
I have helped to clear away this evidence. I peeled Santas off the windows, I put stockings back in the box for next year. I packed up my Christmas tree candle holders, my collectible Christmas beanie babies and tossed the leftover candy canes into the treat bucket.
However, in the wake of Christmas and its overindulgences they linger: the holiday goodies. I have tried to find ways to get rid of them. I tell myself that I'll wait until we have guests and then I'll share them. I pulled all the leftover dainties from various containers in the refrigerator and put them into a single, larger container. I set them above my stove. Over two days, as I cooked dinner, I told myself that one wouldn't hurt, and that they were really small. So small in fact, that if I had made a pan of dessert the pieces would probably equal that of four of the dainties. Slowly but surely, they disappeared. By the end of the container I didn't even bother putting the lid on. It succeeded only in slowing me down.
There are still goodies on the treat shelf. It helps that I don't see them. Some Christmas goodies I don't care for, namely toffees and hard candies and chocolate with pink or beige stuff in them.
One tin in particular comes to mind. It's a roundish metal tin crammed from bottom to top with about a dozen types of festively wrapped treats. They're wrapped in different colours of cellophane and twisted at the ends. I know what those twisted cellophane wrappers signify: candy. Candy is not my weakness. Nutty, caramelly, chocolate, clustery things are more my style. I had hardly looked twice at that bright, cheery, candy-filled container.
Until the other night. Steven was packing his lunch and rooting through the tin. I didn't offer a second glance at what he was taking from there, when out of the corner of my eye I noticed something. It was roughly the shape of a peanut-butter cup, maybe a little taller and less wide, but I knew instinctively that it was chocolate.
I couldn't help myself; it was as though some strange, neurotic force overtook me as I flew from my stool and snatched the container from his hands.
“What?” he asked, confused by my sudden interest in the previously neglected container of treats.
“Those!” I practically shouted. “Those are chocolates! Don't take those, there are only a few in there. Take anything else, leave the chocolate. You know that's all I like, why would you take the last few bites of chocolate from the container when you know I don't like the rest?” It poured from my mouth, this tirade, this accusation.
Steven looked a little scared. He didn't attempt any further grabs from the tin, and didn't stop me when I traded the chocolates in his lunch box for the cellophane-wrapped candy in the tin. “Wait,” he said, before zipping his lunch box closed. “I just want to try one of those red ones.” I clutched the tin to my bosom. “I won't take the ones you want,” he assured me.
“Well okay,” I replied, holding the container out to him but not letting it go. He shuffled through them, I held on tighter. He pulled out a candy in a red wrapper and added it to the ones in his lunch.
“What is that one anyway?” I asked, feeling a little sheepish.
He pulled out the index card. “Chocolate Coffee Creme.”
My breath caught in my throat. “There is chocolate in there?”
“Yes. Don't you read the index cards?”
“No, they all looked like candy.” I paused. “Are all of them chocolate?”
He picked up his lunch and started toward the door. “Yep.”
I tried to collect myself and walk him out. I lingered in the doorway for the hug, kiss, I love you, call me later ritual and then raced back into the kitchen. I clutched the card in my shaking hands, reading the names on the card, names like Double Chocolate Eclaire, Milk Chocolate Hazelnut in Caramel, Milk Chocolate Chocolate Truffle, Chocolate Hazelnut Whirl, Milk Chocolate Biscuit in Caramel, Milk Chocolate Noisette. Not only were they all chocolate, they were mostly milk chocolate. There was no pink grubby filling, no candy, no dark chocolate. The little dish contained piece after piece of milk chocolate. Gone were my feelings of sheepishness over my selfish behavior, gone was my indifference to the tin of goodies. The blue and gold container had come to live at my house for the sole pleasure of me alone. Forget that the tag said “To Steven, Tiffany & Family; From Grandma Grace.” Kids don't need that much chocolate anyway, they're just as thrilled over a bowl of grapes or pretzels. Steven likes any old weird thing. This tin seemed destined for me and me alone.
Over the next few days I tried to ignore the call of the tin, beckoning to me, taking up residence in the back of my mind. I reasoned that I couldn't eat them during the day because the kids would hear the wrappers crinkle and would whine and climb my legs to share. I shouldn't eat them in the evening either, because chocolate “sticks” to you in funny and unattractive ways if eaten too close to bedtime.
Yet, I want them still. I want them all. I hover when Steven rummages through the tin before going to work. I check on what he's taking and how much. I know that somehow this isn't fair. I know that Steven's Grandma Grace probably wouldn't have searched me out to give me these chocolates had I not been his wife. It was likely intended to be a shared treat. Still, I have this overwhelming urge to hide the entire bounty under my bed and engorge myself with chocolate ecstasy some night when Steven is working and the kids are asleep. I sneak them when nobody is looking. It seems as though the tin is bottomless and yet I fear the inevitable sheen of the bottom of the container that will surely glare up at me one day soon. It is this fear that has kept me from eating more than the five I have already snuck today when I can hear the kids happily playing in the basement.
It is also the fear that has me guarding and circling the tin as the kids hover around while I snap a few pictures of the treats.
“What's that Mommy?” Jordan asks.
“It's nothing.”
“Is that a treat? Are we going to have some?”
“No we're not going to eat any. I'm just taking a picture. It's almost supper time,” I lie. Supper is hours away. Tennyson reaches to take a chocolate, peering hesitantly at Crazy Mommy from the corner of his eye. I take the treat away from him and lovingly put it back with the others, positioning myself between him and the chocolates while I hurriedly snap the picture and gather up the chocolates, closing the lid.
“Go play, supper will be ready soon.” They scamper away. I eat a chocolate.
I have helped to clear away this evidence. I peeled Santas off the windows, I put stockings back in the box for next year. I packed up my Christmas tree candle holders, my collectible Christmas beanie babies and tossed the leftover candy canes into the treat bucket.
However, in the wake of Christmas and its overindulgences they linger: the holiday goodies. I have tried to find ways to get rid of them. I tell myself that I'll wait until we have guests and then I'll share them. I pulled all the leftover dainties from various containers in the refrigerator and put them into a single, larger container. I set them above my stove. Over two days, as I cooked dinner, I told myself that one wouldn't hurt, and that they were really small. So small in fact, that if I had made a pan of dessert the pieces would probably equal that of four of the dainties. Slowly but surely, they disappeared. By the end of the container I didn't even bother putting the lid on. It succeeded only in slowing me down.
There are still goodies on the treat shelf. It helps that I don't see them. Some Christmas goodies I don't care for, namely toffees and hard candies and chocolate with pink or beige stuff in them.
One tin in particular comes to mind. It's a roundish metal tin crammed from bottom to top with about a dozen types of festively wrapped treats. They're wrapped in different colours of cellophane and twisted at the ends. I know what those twisted cellophane wrappers signify: candy. Candy is not my weakness. Nutty, caramelly, chocolate, clustery things are more my style. I had hardly looked twice at that bright, cheery, candy-filled container.
Until the other night. Steven was packing his lunch and rooting through the tin. I didn't offer a second glance at what he was taking from there, when out of the corner of my eye I noticed something. It was roughly the shape of a peanut-butter cup, maybe a little taller and less wide, but I knew instinctively that it was chocolate.
I couldn't help myself; it was as though some strange, neurotic force overtook me as I flew from my stool and snatched the container from his hands.
“What?” he asked, confused by my sudden interest in the previously neglected container of treats.
“Those!” I practically shouted. “Those are chocolates! Don't take those, there are only a few in there. Take anything else, leave the chocolate. You know that's all I like, why would you take the last few bites of chocolate from the container when you know I don't like the rest?” It poured from my mouth, this tirade, this accusation.
Steven looked a little scared. He didn't attempt any further grabs from the tin, and didn't stop me when I traded the chocolates in his lunch box for the cellophane-wrapped candy in the tin. “Wait,” he said, before zipping his lunch box closed. “I just want to try one of those red ones.” I clutched the tin to my bosom. “I won't take the ones you want,” he assured me.
“Well okay,” I replied, holding the container out to him but not letting it go. He shuffled through them, I held on tighter. He pulled out a candy in a red wrapper and added it to the ones in his lunch.
“What is that one anyway?” I asked, feeling a little sheepish.
He pulled out the index card. “Chocolate Coffee Creme.”
My breath caught in my throat. “There is chocolate in there?”
“Yes. Don't you read the index cards?”
“No, they all looked like candy.” I paused. “Are all of them chocolate?”
He picked up his lunch and started toward the door. “Yep.”
I tried to collect myself and walk him out. I lingered in the doorway for the hug, kiss, I love you, call me later ritual and then raced back into the kitchen. I clutched the card in my shaking hands, reading the names on the card, names like Double Chocolate Eclaire, Milk Chocolate Hazelnut in Caramel, Milk Chocolate Chocolate Truffle, Chocolate Hazelnut Whirl, Milk Chocolate Biscuit in Caramel, Milk Chocolate Noisette. Not only were they all chocolate, they were mostly milk chocolate. There was no pink grubby filling, no candy, no dark chocolate. The little dish contained piece after piece of milk chocolate. Gone were my feelings of sheepishness over my selfish behavior, gone was my indifference to the tin of goodies. The blue and gold container had come to live at my house for the sole pleasure of me alone. Forget that the tag said “To Steven, Tiffany & Family; From Grandma Grace.” Kids don't need that much chocolate anyway, they're just as thrilled over a bowl of grapes or pretzels. Steven likes any old weird thing. This tin seemed destined for me and me alone.
Over the next few days I tried to ignore the call of the tin, beckoning to me, taking up residence in the back of my mind. I reasoned that I couldn't eat them during the day because the kids would hear the wrappers crinkle and would whine and climb my legs to share. I shouldn't eat them in the evening either, because chocolate “sticks” to you in funny and unattractive ways if eaten too close to bedtime.
Yet, I want them still. I want them all. I hover when Steven rummages through the tin before going to work. I check on what he's taking and how much. I know that somehow this isn't fair. I know that Steven's Grandma Grace probably wouldn't have searched me out to give me these chocolates had I not been his wife. It was likely intended to be a shared treat. Still, I have this overwhelming urge to hide the entire bounty under my bed and engorge myself with chocolate ecstasy some night when Steven is working and the kids are asleep. I sneak them when nobody is looking. It seems as though the tin is bottomless and yet I fear the inevitable sheen of the bottom of the container that will surely glare up at me one day soon. It is this fear that has kept me from eating more than the five I have already snuck today when I can hear the kids happily playing in the basement.
It is also the fear that has me guarding and circling the tin as the kids hover around while I snap a few pictures of the treats.
“What's that Mommy?” Jordan asks.
“It's nothing.”
“Is that a treat? Are we going to have some?”
“No we're not going to eat any. I'm just taking a picture. It's almost supper time,” I lie. Supper is hours away. Tennyson reaches to take a chocolate, peering hesitantly at Crazy Mommy from the corner of his eye. I take the treat away from him and lovingly put it back with the others, positioning myself between him and the chocolates while I hurriedly snap the picture and gather up the chocolates, closing the lid.
“Go play, supper will be ready soon.” They scamper away. I eat a chocolate.
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