Let me just take a moment to pay tribute to my favorite holiday treat. I think I don't give it enough credit. In fact, every year I forget how much I love it until the holidays roll around and we are once again reacquainted.
I'm talking about fudge. Oh, dark angel, how you torment me so with your chocolaty goodness. Evil, so very evil. E-vil like the de-vil.
It is a serious weakness of mine. A few years back I overheard my mom say, "It's just really thick frosting, that's all it is." At the time I shook my head at her blasphemy, but the next time I ate it, I realized how very right she was. Which explains my love for it. I also have a deep love for frosting. I have been ridiculed and persecuted for my request for the corner piece of cake with the giant rose on it. I also might have woken up in the middle of the night once and eaten half a container of frosting with a spoon. I might have, no one knows for sure.
So when Christmas comes around and with it the thick, rich, creamy chunk of chocolate heaven, I rejoice. I hadn't had any fudge until I went to my mom's on Christmas day. She sent me home with a fair amount of fudge that may or may not be gone already. I wanted to cry when I realized there was no fudge for breakfast, when my husband made a miraculous discovery. Hidden inside a bag of candy from a friend was the most beautiful sight my eyes had ever beheld: A large square of tin foil, which, upon opening, revealed a perfect block of fudgy bliss. I might have had some a half hour ago at midnight. Or not. I guess we'll never know.
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