Let’s Get Real with Wanda Morrissey
I’m sitting here at my computer enjoying one of my favorite Christmas traditions, Chicken Bones. Not actual chicken bones but the candy. That pink cinnamon shell and semi-sweet chocolate centre is an irresistible combination that always brings back a flood of happy holiday memories.
Every year my family would gather at my grandparent’s home for Christmas supper and every year my grandmother would have a bowl of Chicken Bones sitting in the middle of the coffee table. I always made a bee-line straight for those candies and, while everyone else snacked on the chocolates, my grandmother and I had the Chicken Bones all to ourselves. I would happily enjoy one Chicken Bone after another until my tongue was raw and an unnatural pink color. And as I enjoyed my candy I also enjoyed all the Christmas sights and sounds around me: the smell of the wood stove and the meal cooking on it (even thought she had an electric stove, my grandmother always cooked on a large wood stove) and the house was so cozy and warm because of that wood stove: my parents chatting with my aunts and uncles, comparing notes with my cousins to see who got the best gifts while Christmas carols played in the background. Despite warnings that too much candy would ruin my appetite, it never happened. No matter how many candies I ate, there was always room for the feast my grandmother prepared.
Sadly, I lost my grandmother on New Year’s Eve 2002. We no longer have the large family gathering, we’ve all grown up and gone our own way, but each year I buy Chicken Bones and as I sit enjoying them I’m magically transported to a bygone Christmas family gathering.
