Christmas treat doesn’t last long

Norm makes really good caramel corn. Sort of like Cracker Jacks—only much better.
Let’s call it Gourmet Crunch. It’s delicious. But we only get it at Christmas because it’s addictive and my blood sugar and dental state simply could not handle any more.
My wife, the Pearl of the Orient, put her order in the other week vowing to restrain herself and to hide the batch from me.
“You know, Norm, what I’d really like is some of your Gourmet Crunch Corn,” the Pearl said. “The grandkids are just crazy about it.
“Jack and I can’t handle it on our diet but you know grandkids. . .,” she wheedled as she delivered a couple of packages of her spring rolls.
Then she added two more packages to clinch the deal.
We picked up the stash the other night.
“I hope the grandkids enjoy it. It is for them, right?” Norm remarked as we drove off into the snow.
“Oh dear, the seal on this bag isn’t quite tight. I spilled a little bit. I guess I’ll have to try it,” cautioned the Pearl.
Serious nibbling noises emanated from the passenger seat area.
“Well, what about me,” I whined in my best hurt puppy dog pout, extending my hand into the gloom while peering through the blowing snow.
“Okay, here . . . munch, munch . . .,” the Pearl managed to mutter around what sounded like a pretty full mouthful as she placed a few—very few—kernels in my hand.
I tossed the paltry offering into my gullet, chewed, briefly entered a state of euphoria, and swallowed. Then my raging appetite kicked in full force and I extended my hand for another serving.
“Mnnnff, munch . . . munch . . . whaddya want now?” came the muttered reply from the gloom.
“I want some more, please,” I managed as I swerved onto the shoulder while trying to focus on the bag of Gourmet Crunch.
The Pearl’s fist was buried a good four inches into the golden goeys.
“Keep your eyes on the road . . . munnff . . . munch,” retorted the Pearl as she reluctantly placed another measly allocation in my outstretched paw.
That portion lasted me about 30 seconds. Again my hand stretched out begging for more. The munching on the other side had not subsided at all.
I turned my eyes back to the road just in time to see Bambi making a dash across it and, more by luck than skill, managed to avoid harvesting any venison.
“Geez! Munch, mnnnfft . . . be careful. I spilled a whole bunch,” snorted the Pearl as she scooped a handful off her lap and stuffed it in her mouth.
We both picked and munched the rest of the way home. The bag is pretty well depleted now. It’ll probably be empty before we hit Kelliher on our way south.
After all, you can’t give a half-box of chocolates or a partial bag of Gourmet Crunch as a gift, can you? Should be a Christmas store along the route with some fancy popcorn for a replacement.
As I sweep my tongue around my gums sucking out the last of the Gourmet Crunch, I utter a cry of despair and guilt, “Darn! Is that a loose filling back there?”

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