I swear that someone stole half a month from me while I wasn't looking. One day it was mid-November, and suddenly it's December. (I actually suspect that a couple months were swiped out from under me, but can't prove it.)
I never knew handing someone a plate of cookies was such a dangerous thing, but what was once a little gesture has turned into a tradition. Bah! Humbug! I swear that when the police come by with their Santa Float for the neighborhood kids, they park in front of our hovel because they know we'll come out with a plate of Charlene's Favorites, Nutmeg Logs and Toffee Squares. This year I even made pralines (with a healthy dose of Maker's Mark). And the cooking frenzy isn't over yet, because we're hosting for Hanukkah this year, so I'm on latke duty.
Tradition is a weird thing. Every year for Thanksgiving, I get assigned (among other dishes) the dreaded canberry pineapple jello mold. Even though I won't eat it, I dutifully make it. And every year, the only person who eats it is the SO, and he takes the smallest sliver he can cut. Then, when the older people are safely snoozing in front of the TV, those of us still in the kitchen make a command decision and dump it into the trash. No one ever questions why it isn't with the other leftovers. Why do I have to make that wretched thing? Because it's tradition. Why did I have to make the flaming yam surprise? Tradition. Did anyone eat it? No. All the non-traditional dishes I made were consumed, while all traditional ones were ignored. It's almost like sacrificial food at this point. I'm tempted to set up an altar and offer them up to... who? Maybe those who are no longer with us but who live on in recipes.
Thankfully, except for the latkes for Hanukkah and torepitas for New Years, there aren't many traditional foods left to make this year - and they're the good ones. At least, I've never seen one dumped in the trash.