It’s legend in our family. The first Christmas I spent at my soon-to-be inlaws, Brian’s mom sat my scrawny rear end down with a bucket of her homemade Buckeyes and said, “I’ll make a McMahan out of you yet!” (I inherited my pint-sized great-grandmother’s frame and had never worried about my weight. Brian’s family came from, we’ll say, sturdier stock.)
I laughed and dove into the five pounds of peanut butter, chocolate and sugar rolled into addictive and delicious balls. I didn’t stop eating them — or the peppermint bark — the entire holiday.
I can’t blame the weight gain on my mother-in-law but when we rolled in there double-chinned and plump-cheeked the next Christmas, I was indeed a McMahan. If by McMahan we mean wearing *several* pant sizes larger, and elastic pants at that.
When I radically changed my diet to shed the McMahan jinx, naturally all yummy things like those candies went off the list. I may have had four or five Buckeyes total in the years since.
But today the UPS man came to my door. And he gave us a box. And in that box, nestled innocently among bubble wrap and and Flint Journal pages, sat two festive tins. You guessed it — one full of peppermint bark and one loaded with my nemesis, and my mother-in-law’s curse, buckeyes.
I can’t wait to dive in.