Thursday, December 22, 2011

The True Meaning Of Christmas: Candy

I've spent the last several days shopping for the holiday. People are grumpy. They are driving like insane, let me modify that. They are driving even more insanely than they normally do in Boston. Which means they have a Starbucks cup in one hand, a cell phone in the other, are giving you the finger, texting, whipping the steering wheel over to cut you off, cussing you out, and generally behaving like a professional athlete. They are also driving a jumbo SUV larger than a submarine. Which is a necessity when you have 2 kids. Right?

Folks are fighting to the death for a parking space at the mall. They are hitting their children in public. They are yelling at the poor salespeople for no good reason.

So, yesterday, after another day of shopping--yippee! I'm done...I'm done!---I decided to go grocery shopping. This also involves risking life and limb for a parking spot, getting rammed by little old ladies in the store, and wanting to curl up and die in the produce section.

My main purpose for this mission was to find candy canes for the kids. I hang tins on their doorknobs on Christmas Eve, and "Santa" leaves them candy canes. They come downstairs on Christmas morning crunching candy canes with big smiles on their faces.

I found a large selection of gorgeous, hand-made candy canes. With weird pie, cherry, butterscotch. I've never seen a candy cane that wasn't peppermint-flavored. The store manager was standing next to the candy cane display, and I asked him if the candy really tasted like all that stuff. He said it was delicious. Then he disappeared.

As I strolled away, I felt a tap on my shoulder. "Here, Ma'am, try this." The manager had broken open a candy cane for me, and offered me a piece. We stood there in the middle of the store, as the crowd hustled around us, and munched on candy canes together. And they were delicious. 

I wished him a Merry Christmas. And he wished me a Merry Christmas.