On Christmas night, I kept finding more caramel down the front of my shirt. Surprised me every time. I’d only had four fistfuls of cake. I thought they’d all made it into my mouth. And yet when I slipped off my turtleneck dickie worn in tribute to Cousin Eddie, I found a chunk of caramel frosting mashed into the bib. I thought that was the end of it, then more frosting turned up inside my shirt when I put on pajamas. And it wasn’t until the next day that I found my bra encrusted with caramel as if I’d been stuffing cake down my cleavage all night. What kind of party was this? I blame my sister.