I’m struggling with a little bit of writers block right now because I have “Silver Bells” being sung in a deep country accent stuck in my head on rotation. I keep wanting to write, “well folks, Christmas is here…” and then I remember I’ve never used the term “folks” in my life. It’s like Blake Shelton has infiltrated the darkest corners of my mind in his cowboy boots and Santa hat. Not a single word that has been written thus far has anything to do with a food adventure or a food story of any kind. I’m not trying to produce some kind of smooth transition into a discussion about Tennessee Whiskey. I honestly just can’t get this damn song out of my head and it’s very distracting when you are trying to post something.
So, let’s talk about the most obvious topic, Christmas time. It’s here! In just 4 days, Santa will be conducting his annual “breaking and entering” routine while engaging in a pretty awesome bartering system for cookies. I mean, who wouldn’t want to leave a whole bunch of shit they don’t want at someone else’s house in exchange for a plate full of cookies? What’s Santa going to do with a ten thousandth Hess truck? I say give it to a kid and take a chocolate chip cookie or two.
When executed correctly, the whole Santa thing is actually a really special concept. For example, little Tommy has been a very good boy all year and wrote a letter to Santa asking for some Star Wars action figures. Tommy thinks that his “good boy” behavior dictates the results of his gift from Santa, so of course he’s going to try as hard as he can to follow the rules and listen to grown ups. Since Tommy is a thoughtful boy, he believes Santa is probably tired and hungry from going to all of those houses in one night, and he decides to leave Santa some cookies to help fuel up his energy. Kind of like carbo-loading before the marathon, because Tommy is apparently on the track team.
I’ve got to hand it to Santa though. He is one brave man. I would never have the guts to eat cookies that I found just sitting on a plate. It’s a little too suspicious if you ask me. If there isn’t a sign, how does Santa know what flavor the cookies are? Does he like all types of cookies? I don’t. I love cookies, but not every single kind. And how about food allergies or intolerances? Where’s the list of ingredients? I don’t think I can trust a random plate of cookies hanging out on a table. I need to know that it’s safe for me to eat and that I won’t have to use my EpiPen. Imagine! “What’s all the noise?” “Oh nothing kids, go back to sleep, Santa is just going into anaphylactic shock, but don’t worry because we got the presents already.”
I guess you can say that most of these concerns are completely and utterly irrational, given the fact that Santa isn’t an actual human being completing any of the above tasks. These are more of my own neurotic fears about eating something I shouldn’t have. I think it just comes out a little bit more fun when I turn myself into a jolly old fat man.
I’m struggling with a little bit of writers block right now because I have “Silver Bells” being sung in a deep country accent stuck in my head on rotation. I keep wanting to write, “well folks, Christmas is here…” and then I remember I’ve never used the term “folks” in my life. It’s like Blake Shelton has infiltrated the darkest corners of my mind in his cowboy boots and Santa hat. Not a single word that has been written thus far has anything to do with a food adventure or a food story of any kind. I’m not trying to produce some kind of smooth transition into a discussion about Tennessee Whiskey. I honestly just can’t get this damn song out of my head and it’s very distracting when you are trying to post something.
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Hilarious. Of course Santa has the innate ability to determine which cookies he wants and those he’ll pass.