Jesus. That's why there is a Christ Mass. Duh!

If you don't realize (or accept) that this is, at the core, why we celebrate this holiday (heck, why it's even CALLED Christmas) you're a moron. Period.

That said, the manner in which we celebrate this holy day typically revolves around a gluttonous, sinful, overindulgence in yummy goodness.

Yes, there are gifts. Of course, there are carols, but when it's all said and done, it's the food that brings us over. It's the food that makes us stay. It's the food that knocks us down (Although, the wine sometimes helps.), and it's the food that makes us get up at 2:30 a.m. and rape the refrigerator. (Yes, I really did write that.)

So, this entry is my thank you letter to fried chicken. It's an ode to

potato salad. I'm paying homage to mashed potatoes and putting Hummingbird Cake on it's well-deserved pedestal. All hail.

Dear Butter, Chocolate, Gravy and Fried Potatoes:

You've done so much for me this year. You calmed my nerves when I was unsure what decision to make. You tempered my temper and kept me from stabbing Mr. Do-Right when he'd done wrong. You quieted my children when I needed a moment of silence. You fed colds (and some fevers, despite the adage). You were, sadly, closer to me than most. I thank you for your being here for me. Always.

But, in this approaching new year, I think we may need to see other people. I'm thinking of spending some time with my running shoes. I may even have a weekend getaway with the Wii Fit. It's not that I don't love you anymore. It's just that ... well ... some relationships are for a reason. Some are for a season. Some are for a lifetime. I think we are seasonal.

I know we'll see each other again. I'll save room for you. Don't say goodbye. Just say, "Until we meet again." Au revoir, mon cheri.

(Chocolate, call me in February. Maybe we can hang out for a bite - I meant "bit.")

K.

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OK, so the blog changed. It looks different; and, in the words of our great American hero Forrest Gump, "That's all I have to say about that."

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My mom was the neighborhood mom. Like in an 80s TV sitcom, our friends would often call her by some variation of her name (Mrs. V, Mama E., Moms, etc.). She was known to bake a mean pound cake (still does!) and could prepare a chicken that was better than Popeyes, Bojangles and KFC all deep fried into one. She was THAT mother.

Now, as welcoming as my mother has always been, she would never welcome you into her past. She's always claimed she doesn't remember much about her childhood or that children didn't know much because they were required to be seen (briefly) and then dismissed. So, having a mom with Fort Knox-like locks on her memory banks, I always grasp onto her every shared memory like an old lady on a steering wheel - unrelentingly.

You can imagine my surprise when my mom caught a case of word vomit today and revealed a devilish little memory from her childhood. In a conversation about my little problem (let's just say it starts with "con" and ends with "stipation"), my mother told me about the unconventional reply she and her childhood friends would give when asked if they wanted cheese. She recalled, "Anytime someone would offer it to us, we would giggle and say:

Me no eat cheese.

Cheese choke 'em ass.

Me no shit for many, many moons."

Now, I'm still not quite sure why adults were walking around offering cheese to impressionable young girls, but it was the 50s, and I'm guessing it had something to do with the advent of fondue.

The great part about this little tidbit, though, is not its blatant vulgarity or even the equally vulgar conversation that led to it. What's so awesome about this memory is that my 69-year-old mother remembered it. That gives me hope.

All the little blank spots from my past, the moments I just can't seem to fill with some important event I know must've happened - because my siblings told me so - could come back to me. What's more, they might be filled with hilarious, racist Native American limericks or something equally as "cheesy." Thanks, Mommy.

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