It is her fault. I can't help the way I was raised, I was brain washed from young age.
Some of my earliest memories of Christmas are of my mother in the kitchen. Every year she would slave away, Christmas music blaring, while she baked one delicious sweet after another. She would make sweet breads and candy's, cookies and bars. We were allowed one or two but the rest were packed away in Tupperware in the freezer. Until the day we made plates.
All the yummys were brought out and lined up on the table, fudge, gingerbread, toffee, caramels, cookies of all types, mini loves of cranberry orange bread. Assembly line style, plates were filled to overflowing, wrapped, labeled and bowed to be distributed among those we deemed worthy, pastors, teachers, bus drivers and friends.
To me, Christmas is synonymous with baking and I blame my mother. When I play Christmas music I just can't keep myself from whipping up a batch of whoopie pies or revel bars. Soon the house smells good and my children are underfoot waiting for the goodies to come out of the oven. The treats are shared and eaten, then frozen for a later date when they will be put on plates for those important people in our lives, friends and neighbors maybe even the mail man.