Forget chestnuts roasting on an open fire; pass me the Chex mix
01/12/07

If you’ve ever seen me in a t-shirt, it will come to no surprise to you to learn that I spend 11 months of the year working out – and by “working out,” I mean sitting on the sofa slamming chocolate chip cookies and washing them down with Gatorade

But the holidays are a special time for me; they are a time to be with people I love, a time to share with others, but mainly, they are an excuse to abandon what little self-discipline I have during the rest of the year and turn into a human Pac-Man. Starting at about Halloween, I go on a see-food diet; that is, if I see food, I eat it. In the spirit of the season I also switch to eggnog flavored Gatorade.

The holidays are murder if you’re trying to eat right. There are parties almost every night, and everywhere you turn someone is shoving a piece of peanut brittle or a slice of fruitcake in your face. Christmas is about food and at no time is this more obvious than when you go home for the holidays. This year I finally realized that the reason I get new clothes every year is not because my old ones are worn out – it’s because they’ve grown so snug that I look like a sausage in a Grateful Dead t-shirt.

We always visit my mother-in-law at Christmas, and she’s a great cook. She also believes that no one should ever feel even the slightest suggestion of hunger while under her roof. This year she cooked an 18-pound ham – for six people. Do the math, and that’s three pounds of pork per person. I’m as big a fan of alliteration as the next guy but that’s a lot of pig.

I ate so much ham that week that I had trouble putting my shoes on. Not only was it nearly impossible for me to bend over, but my feet were starting to turn into cloven hooves. I won’t even mention trying to get my pants on over my curly little tail.

My sister-in-law was also there and she had brought one enormous batch of oatmeal raisin cookies, one loaf each of pumpkin and applesauce bread, and an institutional-sized batch of the infamous Chex party mix. Chex mix and me is a dangerous combination. It’s like cocaine to a pro footballer, or a camera to Paris Hilton – I can’t say no to it.

Speaking of party mix, this year I decided to try my hand at making it. I whipped up several batches, tweaking the recipe each time and before I knew it, I became obsessed with it. In fact, one night I had a dream in which Salma Hayek appeared at my door, dressed in a little black negligee and offering to do anything I asked of her. So, I told her to get dressed, gave her five bucks and sent her to HEB for garlic salt and a bag of pretzels.