Don Lively
My compulsion has gotten the best of me.
I know better than to do this. I’ve been somewhat clean and sober for months.
But I’m only human and today I fell off the wagon. I’ve overdosed on divinity.
Not the kind we learn about in Sunday School.
I’m referring to the insidious, addictive, evil substance that takes control of me every year about this time.
White divinity. Ninety-nine percent pure, unadulterated cane sugar with a few chunks of pecan (that’s PEA like black-eyed and CAN like tin for our Yankee readers) thrown in for crunch purposes.
There’s a reason it’s called divinity.
It’s Heaven on Earth.
Sadly, it was the one thing that Mama was never able to make. So, years ago, when I needed my fix, I learned to rely on Aunt Alice who made some of the best I ever tasted. These days my neighbor Miss Joanne’s ranks blue ribbon too.
Divinity is one of the reasons I‘ll be digging in the closet for my fat clothes come January.
I love the Holidays.
I love the feel in the air. The festive nature. The smell of fresh cut Christmas trees. Picking out just the right gift. Christmas music, though I wish it didn’t start right after Labor Day.
I love it all, but especially, of course, the food.
The Holiday Season is the only time that I allow myself to overindulge without guilt. Too understand that you need to know how the Holidays work to me.
Sometime around Halloween I make an subconscious decision that the Holidays have begun. After all, somebody has to eat all of that left over trick or treat candy. Then comes Thanksgiving and Christmas with the multiple gorge fests that quite rightly accompany them. Then, on December 31st I vow to myself that beginning the next day, NO MORE. The Holidays are over. Get back to eating semi healthy. Of course that all goes out the window about thirty seconds into the New Year when somebody has popped open a bottle of champagne and trays of snacks are being passed around. Okay, so perhaps the Holidays are not quite over after all. One thing leads to another and, before I know it, it’s Memorial Day. After all, doesn’t the lauding of our fighting forces merit eating ourselves into a stupor just like the other Holidays?
About then is when it happens.
I wake up from the months long calorie induced semi coma and realize that it’s less than a month till the annual family beach trip and that I have to lose some tonnage before I strike the shore.
My extended Holiday Season comes to a screeching halt and for a few short months the guilt returns along with the spinach salads.
Being back in the South, where every woman and most of the men, can cook like Paula Deen, makes it even worse.
With all due respect to my adopted homeland of thirty years, folks Out West can’t hold a whisk to Southern Holiday cuisine, so the years I didn’t travel home for Christmas things were a little easier.
One year I was invited to Christmas dinner with some friends. I knew from past experience that the lady of the house, who would prepare the meal, was, frankly, a terrible cook. I’d dined with them a few times before and was not able to come up with a single reason that I couldn’t join them that year. So, bravely, I crossed my fingers, gritted my teeth and went in.
Inexplicably, I was asked to say the blessing.
“Don, would you please give thanks for the meal?”
I doubted that the Lord wanted to be responsible for what we were about to receive so I half jokingly suggested that we start a new tradition.
“Why don’t we wait till after we’ve eaten so that we can be more honest and accurate with our entreaties to Him.”
Needless to say, my attempt at humor missed the mark and I was never invited back.
Now THAT was something to be thankful for.
Not all of the western cooks were that bad and in fact, many of the ladies I worked with took pity on my bachelorhood and plied me with Holiday treats aplenty.
Cookies. Pies. Cakes. Candy.
The stand alone, without a doubt best was the fudge made by my friend Debbie in our dispatch. I got a double batch several years in a row till she up and got married.
Her fudge wasn’t divinity but it was divine. Mouthwatering. I’d say grace over it any time.
Resistance to such delights is futile. So, bring on the Holidays. No lettuce till May.
Amen.
Don Lively is a retired police officer and freelance writer. He lives in Shell Bluff. Email Don at Livelycolo@aol.com.
