Last night I found a small cardboard box inside a crumpled brown paper grocery bag on the top shelf of the hall closet. Inside this small cardboard box were five, unopened, untouched packages of Mallo Cups. They were two-packs. It was a Christmas gift I had received from my Uncle many years ago. The gift was so perfect in conception and execution - the cardboard box was recycled from some incomprehensible electronics parts company, with its order form invoice and label still stuck on the lid - that I didn't dare disturb it. Eating the Mallo Cups would've ruined everything. In its simple, unsophisticated manner the gift summed up a thousand dark, cold, slushy November weeknights spent waiting for my father to pick me up from Catechism and making due with a single, unwrapped, Mallo Cup in...