The countdown to Christmas hangs on the fridge displayed in bold letters indicating three more days to Christmas.  I stare at the calender realizing my mom and I had not yet made her famous peanut butter balls. I yearn for the combination of crushed graham crackers, creamy peanut butter, and smooth rich chocolate.

Once my mom arrived to the kitchen, I violently whack the rolling pin on the bag of graham crackers making sure each little piece is crushed while my mom measured out the peanut butter. Before we can begin covering the balls with chocolate my mom asks her routine question of, “Spoons ready?”

“Ready when you are,” I say with determination.

After our check, we plop the balls in the bowl, fighting with our spoons for the last scraps of chocolate. Once the balls were covered in chocolate we test out our batch. As the chocolate hit our lips we knew that we had done a successful job.

As I make that last X on the calendar, my role the night before Christmas was to set out a plate of cookies and other deserts along with two peanut butter balls for “Santa” to eat. My little brother  asked me, “What dessert do you think Santa will like the best?”

I looked at him puzzled even though I knew the answer, “Maybe the peanut butter balls, I am not sure.”

Sure enough on Christmas morning when my brother and I checked to see what Santa had eaten, the whole two peanut butter balls had disappeared from the plate. “I told you Santa would like the peanut butter balls!” I told my brother, giving my mom a smirk.