My mother.  A woman who read my blog exactly once and decided that “while you are a good writer, dear,” she would rather stick to reading mysteries. 

When I got married in 2002, she informed me that not only would the alloted funds for my Christmas presents now be halved, she would no longer be sending care packages.  Because adults don’t get care packages, even if they were full-time students and still lived in a dorm.  I agreed to this (though the gift thing annoyed me, I have always suspected that once Peter came on the scene they liked him more then they liked me). 

However, the box-sending did not stop.  Rather, their contents changed to reflect . . . what?  My married life?  A dorm apartment with a kitchen?  I’m not sure.  But people are always fascinated by what I receive. 

The most recent shipment contained:  homemade fruit cake (Peter loves the stuff, freak), banana nut bread, three kinds of trail mix (again, for Peter) two labeled bags and three individually labeled tubs of cookies (one for me, one for Peter, and some for my friends who were in my wedding and my mother met, once), cheese popcorn, and Rice-a-Roni.  There are also two plastic bags with seasoned tuna and little vegetable dip mixes with Bible verses on them.  I can only assume they were from some crafty village or nursing home fundraiser.  And that Jesus likes ranch dip.

She also sent a pan cozy, for the loving transport of hot dishes for church potlucks.  I generally buy cookies at the drug store for such events, but this is shaming my Pennsylvanian Methodist heritage.  I now have the proper tools to do right by Wesleyan scalloped potatoes.  (They are like regular scalloped potatoes, you just warm them at 350 degrees, strangely.)

I also get articles from my hometown newspaper, one about a former viloa teacher of mine, one about a fifth-grader working on his own toy drive.  Actually, I think the fifth-grader might be my cousin.  This is a good shipment.  Generally I get word of my high school classmates going to jail. 

Ah, the holidays.  Even if I won’t be home, home comes to me.  Well, until one day when we have kids.  And the Christmas fund goes to them and we just get fruitcake.

Maybe I’ll develop at taste for the stuff.  Or learn alchemy and turn it in to gold.  Either is just as likely.