Over the years this has caused considerable consternation on a number of occasions – missed Christmas presents on Christmas eve, a birthday crumb cake from Grandma inedible by the time it was redelivered.

Though today was no exception, as I flew down the stairs at nearly literal break-neck speed, I managed to catch our guy just as he was turning to leave since he’d stopped to fill out the “must sign” delivery slip.

What could it be? It was addressed to my husband. It was a small, non-descript, white cardboard mailer. A memory-chip? A small cable for one of his techie shenanigans?

As I flipped the envelop back and forth to decipher the source, a whiff of spicy cinnamon. Instant recognition. The scent of a fireball jawbreaker to be exact, accompanying this year’s journey to…Metropolis.

Do you have your Golden Ticket?

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