I remember eagerly twisting on the creaky swivel chair at the counter in my warm kitchen, patiently waiting to get started on the festive process of making our annual batch of Buckeyes. I remember seeing my mom sitting cross-legged on the floor (she couldn’t comfortably stir on our tall counters) with the shiny, silver metal bowl between her legs as she mixed. I watched as the sticky peanut butter swirled into the powdered sugar to create a rich, creamy paste.

My eyes locked on the shiny silver bowl as my mom brought it up to the counter where my younger brother Nico and I sat. Getting up on my knees, I used my hands to push my body up closer to the counter, trying to balance so I could look inside of the bowl. I took a sugar coated breath, tasting the sweetness of the moment as Nico and I ardently dug our hands into the bowl, starting to roll little, tan colored, bite sized balls.

I felt like an elf working in Santa’s factory; the Christmas music reverberating off of every wall in the house, and the glow of our half-lit Christmas tree with the plush snowman decorations. Putting our tiny, frozen toes on the heater beneath the window with our breath fogging up the glass as we watched the fluffy, white snowflakes fall in contrast to the coal-black sky. Buckeyes are the treat that brings this feeling of home back year after year.

After a full day of Buckeye making, Nico and I watched as Mom and Papa used toothpicks to dip the peanut-butter balls into a pot of smooth, waxy chocolate over the stove and then plop the finished Buckeyes onto a cookie sheet, both of us scheming how we can sneak one without our parents noticing.