Fun Monday-Easter Baskets

Our sweet Fun Monday hostess with the mostess this week is jMo at Wisconsin Candy who wants to know what we would like in our Easter basket:

The topic is Easter Baskets: Share a story, is it better to give or to receive, what would you like in yours?

Let me tell ya', I'm all over the Easter basket thing. I love a good Easter basket. I have great memories of childhood Easters, especially those annual egg hunts at church when we would scatter all over the grounds scrambling after brightly colored marshmallow eggs. I was always the child who wanted the WHITE chocolate lamb, which was not an easy thing to come by back in...well, never mind. Let's just say it was before white chocolate was plentiful. I could make that lamb last for days, sometimes weeks, while my brothers gobbled theirs up right away. (Psst. I was the annoying kid who still had Halloween candy stashed away at Christmas.) For this assignment, I started to list all of the candies I would like in my basket today. Then I remembered the three hours I spent in the car with my sixteen year old this weekend giving her driving lessons and thought I should ask for something other than candy in my basket. After all, we have at least three more months of practice driving before her test.

I'd like a thick soled shoe to stand up to all of those times I spend mashing my right foot into the imaginary brake pedal on the passenger side of the car.And an elbow pad for when I press my elbow into the door, trying to push us away from the edge of the road where there is no shoulder.A helmet would help for when I'm pounding my head against the dash, saying, "How many times do I have to tell you?And duct tape for my mouth to keep me from saying, "How many times do I have to tell you?" And to keep her from saying, "I know, I know!"

Let's top it off with a Humvee. That way when we veer across the center line, we'll have some protection from the oncoming traffic.

Oh, and a little white chocolate to sooth my clinched up stomach upon our return from each lesson.

It's a good thing I can hoard my holiday candy. I see a lot of chocolate in my future between now and and Independence Day.

*Images courtesy of: shoes.com, bulletproofme.com, injurysupplies.com, armyrecgonition.com and mackenzieschocolates.com.

Hula's Newest Favorite Thing

This flavor is enough to make even the non believers eat a Peep.Kroger, top shelf, seasonal aisle.

Attention Shoppers.......

Once upon a time, in 1961, there was a little boy called Sonny. He was seven years old, and boy, did he like chocolate. He liked chocolate so much that one day he slipped into the corner store and stole a chocolate bar. It was a Hershey’s chocolate bar. He toddled home and opened the wrapper. Little Sonny loved the taste of that stolen Hershey bar. He savored every bite and was halfway through the candy bar when his dad came home from work and found Little Sonny on the back porch with a chocolate mustache and a big grin. He asked Sonny where he got the candy bar.

“I found it,” said Sonny.

“Found it? You mean you stole it,” said his dad. “You don’t have any money.”

His dad jerked him up off the porch, grabbed the Hershey bar and marched little Sonny two blocks down the street to the little corner store, admonishing him the whole way. He made little Sonny climb up on the counter so Sonny could look the store owner in the eye, admit to the crotchety old owner that he had stolen the candy bar and apologize for it. THEN he made little Sonny get on the INTERCOM and announce LOUDLY to the WHOLE store, “My name is Sonny and I stole a candy bar from this store and I’m sorry.” And then he marched little Sonny home.

And that my friends, is why my husband cannot stand to eat a Hershey bar today. And why Teen Angel and I practically peed our pants yesterday afternoon when we heard that story for the first time. It’s also why Hubby never ever stole anything again.

Up in Smoke

I went into the convenience store to pay for gas. Okay, I really paid at the pump with a credit card and went inside because I had a bad craving for a big, Chewy SweeTart. A craving so bad my skin itched. As I was digging around the shelves for some dextrose, maltodextrin crack, I found this.

Holy corn syrup Batman! Aren’t those candy cigarettes? They’re labeled candy sticks, but anyone over the age of 35 recognizes this red box as candy cigarettes. The sticks inside even had the red tips that are supposed to simulate the glow of burning tobacco. I thought they quit making those years ago because it made smoking seem cool to little kids. It sure made it cool to me when I was young. I posed and puffed with many a candy cigarette, making sure to hang the end with the red tip out of my mouth. Didn’t want to burn my lip, you know. At about age seven I yearned for a long, black cigarette holder and elbow length satin gloves for my dress up box. I thought they would look great with the fur collar my grandpa gave me and the satin pajamas Uncle D. sent me from Vietnam. I wanted to be Bette Davis. Heck, I thought I WAS Bette Davis. Never mind that I didn’t have big, round blue eyes. Living out in the middle of the sticks with no swimming pool didn’t stop me from believing I was Esther Williams for about two years either. Anyway, without the holder, I was relegated to perfecting my cigarette hold with pointer and middle man. Thumbkin was artfully arched to the side as I pursed my lips into a perfect “O” to blow imaginary smoke rings across our back porch. I was divine, dahling. Divine….and oh so full of myself.

Back then, no one batted an eye when kids pretended to smoke. All of the adults smoked, and no one (except the tobacco industry) knew yet just how bad smoking was for us. Daddy smoked. He puffed on Camels, keeping a pack in his shirt pocket at all times and politely flicking his ashes into the cuff of his pants if he was indoors and didn’t have an ashtray. I watched him, studying the hold, how he inhaled and exhaled, wanting to be ready for the day when I could light up the real thing. But then he quit when I was about ten, and I lost interest in it. I didn’t have a desire to smoke, even when I became a teenager. Even then it was pretty common for young people to smoke. We had a smoking section at our high school. Oh, I tried it a time or two when I was about eighteen, but I didn’t like it, for two reasons. One, I looked really stupid at it. Despite all of my candy cigarette practice, I looked like an idiot holding the real thing, and I knew it. I couldn’t inhale without coughing, and I couldn’t blow a smoke ring to save my life. Two, it made my mouth taste bad. I hate having bad breath, and immediately after the second time I tried smoking I was asked to slow dance by someone I really had the hots for. I knew if we got on the dance floor, he would probably kiss me, and he did. The whole time I kept thinking, “T. is kissing me! T. is kissing me! God, I must taste like an ashtray.” That put an end to my attempts at smoking.

I’m very glad I never started. Heart disease runs heavily in my family, and smoking is the last thing I need. I like being able to breathe well, and I’m healthier because I don’t smoke. We’re smarter now than we were back then. Parents didn’t know back then to be appalled at candy cigarettes. Not like we are today. I can’t believe I found these things on the shelf of my local convenience store. I’d be lying though, if I didn’t admit that a small part of me enjoyed buying the box for old time’s sake and holding that candy stick between my fingers. Just one though. I’m saving the rest for this weekend. I have What Ever Happened to Baby Jane stored in my DVR, dahling.

Trick or Treat

I haven’t bought any Halloween candy yet. Not because I’m behind. I’m just afraid to bring it into my house until the last minute because I cannot control myself around a plastic pumpkin full of chocolate. Or sour stuff. Or gummies. Or licorice. I love Halloween candy. As a kid there’s nothing better than extorting candy out of adults with a smile and a big, “Trick or Treat”. I don’t know who thought up that scam, but it’s a good one. I’d trick or treat today if I could get away with it. When I was a kid we lived so far out in the boondocks we had to drive into town to trick or treat. We had to interlope into strange neighborhoods. We were those kids who carpooled into the well heeled neighborhoods in hopes of snagging “the good stuff”. Good times. Of course, that was a time when you could turn your kids loose with a pillowcase and let them roam and knock on doors for hours without worrying about them. Before the movie Halloween came out and scared the bejesus out of us. Before To Catch A Predator showed us that the bogeyman really lives next door and likes to chat online with little girls.

That was also a time when costumes were homemade, and kids made them with stuff around the house. I remember when only losers bought a costume. When I was about ten, I turned myself into Dolly Parton with a tacky knit jumpsuit I found in my aunt’s yard sale box, a blonde wig and a couple of tube socks. Hmm. Maybe it was four tube socks. Another year I was a tissue box thanks to a cardboard box, some paint and some tissue paper. I won a prize for that one. Another year I was a clown with a little help from my dad’s size eleven shoes and some baggy pants. A classmate of mine had an artistic mom who was the queen of paper mache. She could turn him into anything he wanted with some chicken wire, glue and paper. Everyone in fifth grade was in awe of his koala bear costume. Everybody wore the same mask, those Lone Ranger looking things that came in about four colors: black, white, red and blue. I tried to avoid wearing them because they itched and suffocated me. I hated scratching and I liked breathing.

Halloween is different now in that it’s pretty commercial, and it’s controversial. I’m puzzled by the disdain some folks have for Halloween. I don’t think it’s a celebration of all things Satan. For kids, it’s still just a scam for candy. It’s the adults that make it into something more sinister. One thing that hasn’t changed is the candy. It’s still fattening, and it still rots your teeth. Kids still will eat too much of it on Halloween night, and they will still dump it on the floor and sort it out. Junk like pencils and pennies get tossed (for the love of Pete, if you are one of the folks who hands that stuff out…stop it). Everything else gets placed into one of three piles: favorites that are to be savored and eaten first, okay stuff that will help to make the favorites last and the leftovers to be eaten when everything else is gone. Personally, I will buy “the good stuff” and get extra so we can eat the leftovers until Thanksgiving. None of that crappy candy corn for the Hula’s thanks. Hershey’s miniatures all the way. I just won’t buy it until the last minute. What’s in your Halloween bowl? Can I peek? Please? Just one look? I just want one, something chocolate.

Heaven's Just A Sin Away

On the fifth day the Lord put forth a tempting snack that when used in moderation is a right and glorious thing but when used in gluttony becomes an enemy to thine hips. Thine enemy has a name and that name is circus peanut. Lord, forgive me for I have sinned with the circus peanuts..again. I am a weak and sinful child…AGAIN.

Usually, I’m pretty disciplined about my eating habits. I’m trying to make up for years of lard fried pies and convenience store burritos. During the week, I eat lots of fruits and vegetables. I limit soda to a half a can a day. I skip dessert and limit the deep fried stuff. I let go on the weekend and enjoy some of the bad stuff, but I don’t get too carried away, and I go back to being a good girl on Monday morning. I don’t binge on buffets anymore, and I’ve converted the whole family to skim milk. They give me dirty looks behind my back for it. I can feel it, but I don’t care. It’s good for us.

The one area I have trouble with is candy. I can’t resist a little candy when I’m reading at night. I try to limit myself to a handful of Red Hots or Sweet Tarts, but I can’t break the habit entirely. I’ve tried going cold turkey, but that just led to a frenzied search in the cabinets yielding only dried out Peeps from Easter. Which I ate…in secret…so no one would see me eating four month old candy. I felt like an alcoholic drinking cough syrup because it was the only thing in the cabinet. Ashamed, but satisfied, and then full of guilt. So now I keep a little stash of candy handy and try to control my habit. I’d been doing okay, until I fell off the wagon about two weeks ago. All because of this:

The circus peanut. An orange wad of marshmallow that doesn’t even taste that good. Unless consumed with a glass of iced tea and a good book. I’ve found they’re best when eaten fresh, while they’re still somewhat soft, but I’ll eat them when they’re as dry as cardboard. I’m addicted. I like the way they feel, smooth on the bottom, textured on top. The smell is…I’m not sure how to describe it….a tad fruity but mostly…artificial sweetener. Whoo! God is good. I like that nice piquant aftertaste, too. I can’t stay away from them. I don’t know what brought this on or when it will end, but I’m beginning to worry. I bought a bag last Friday, and it’s already empty, two days faster than the last bag I ate. Sometimes I’m not even aware that I’m eating them. I found one on the bathroom counter Saturday and had no recollection of bringing it in there with me. Food..in the bathroom….that’s desperate…and gross. I grabbed two on the way out the door the other day and got a little panicky when I got belted into the van and couldn’t find them. After a frantic search under Teen Angel’s disgusted gaze I discovered them…in my purse. I didn’t even care that they were fuzzy. I’m telling you. It’s bad. I didn’t even have this kind of weird craving when I was pregnant with Teen Angel. So, I’m admitting my addiction publicly..on these pages…hoping it will shame me into better behavior. All I can say is it’s a good thing I wasn’t in the Garden of Eden. I could have passed on the apple, but if that serpent had waved a circus peanut in my face I would have slid to hell on a fast Brach’s train. Pray for me, brothers and sisters.