Boxes ripped, ravaged, and rummaged, paper mache in the garbage, and receipts stashed. Freezing blizzards of frosted rain could not stop family from coming together. While most arrived, one had not been seen.

Suddenly, as if my nose had become a tongue, I tasted the air. Twas the smell of 60 crusty crumpets that made the house shake of hungry guests, each syringed with a touch of creamy, cold custard- and enough white soft icing to run down the sides.

The master of these delicious treats was seen once a year: Aunt Carol. 86 and still healthy.  

Food laid out precisely in order: meat at beginning and veggies at end. I grabbed the hulking ham, seasoned brussel sprouts, goopy green bean casserole and white juicy turkey.

But then the room faded silent. The smell of custard, ice topped crumpets filled the air. When the plate was set and the cover ripped off, perfection took its form. Then it was like Black Friday 2.0, dozens of stuffed bellies craving one more spot to hold dessert.

After we had at least three of the crispy desserts, we thanked Aunt Carol for her cooking and people started to leave. When my Aunt Carol was the only one left, I knew exactly why.

Aunt Carol gave me a box of butterhorns.