By Diana Hoke
Candy canes are the first sign of Christmas, rather like a robin is the first sign of spring even though there is still snow on the ground. Candy canes arrive on the scene before the Halloween chocolate bonanza is barely swept from the shelves. For children they appear as the ubiquitous gift from school bus drivers and mall Santas and as incentives from teachers with little budget to spend on more than that. Candy canes are the inspiration for holiday home décor and ugly Christmas sweaters. In miniature form they appear tied to gift wrapped presents for added joy or hung on the sides of cups of hot cocoa. As leftovers they invite creative recipes such as “Peppermint Bark Popcorn,” and “Chocolate Snowflake Candy Canes”. In homes around the world, boxes of candy canes await to be hung as the final touch on the Christmas tree.
But as for me, I am done with candy canes. Have you given one to a six-year-old lately? I call them Scrooge candy canes.
“Grandma, is it okay if I have a candy cane from the tree?”
“Sure, buddy! Help yourself.”
“Grandma, I can’t get this open. Can you help me?”
There is no way on Earth this six-year-old can open his candy cane. This commercially produced striped temptation is hermetically secured these days in plastic shrink wrap that could withstand years, perhaps decades, of sitting on warehouse shelves waiting to be trotted out again year after year. They could survive boat transport and never be wet in the event of a shipwreck, appearing in heaps on tropical beaches, still retaining their candy cane-ness. Much like stingy Ebenezer Scrooge, this Christmas treat is not about to give up even one sweet lick.
“Honey, I’m so sorry. I think we’ll have to break it to open it. Is that okay?”
Of course it’s not okay! Candy canes of Christmas Pasts were supposed to be enjoyed intact, in complete cane shape, sucked and slurped into a sharp point on the bottom end to poke your brother with. Broken candy canes are unacceptable in this Christmas Present six-year-old’s view.
This evening, in an act of peppermint vengeance, I decide to purge my tree of candy canes. I will crush them into bits and pieces to decorate peppermint fudge. Surely if I take my time, I can unwrap a dozen or so in short work. But no. To begin with, the plastic wrapping is skintight with not even a little gathered tip hanging at the cane’s end to pull with my teeth. Scissors don’t work for the same reason. Nothing to grab and cut. I find my miniature box cutter, which slices not only through the plastic skin but also through the candy cane, therefore producing several still tightly wrapped, smaller pieces of cane. As a final resort, out comes the meat hammer. By pounding away vigorously, (with cruel satisfaction at this point!) I produce candy cane dust. I pick out the plastic, scoop up the dust, and atop the fudge it goes.
As I clean up the kitchen mess, I notice the song from my childhood playing on Pandora in the living room: ” ‘C’ is for the candy cane upon the Christmas tree/ ‘H’ is for the happiness within the family….”
No. No, it isn’t. Not in the Christmas Futures of this family. Not when a candy cane is hanging around! Bah, Humbug!
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