I spent a lot of time over the holidays trying to figure out how to make fudge for my relatives that would actually make it into the hands of my relatives this year. I love my family, but past experience has shown that if fudge is any indicator, I love myself even more. Because do you know what's thicker than water and blood? Fudge.
The problem is that it’s difficult to outwit myself when I can see the actual fudge-making process going on right in front of me. Then I see where I hide it. And I know all the weaknesses of the complicated booby-traps I set to protect it. However, unlike last year when I made 14 batches of the stuff, I only made one batch this year. The chocolate kind. Of that batch, I ate just one piece of fudge. Can you believe that? Only two pieces out of the whole pan! Three pieces of fudge. And that, you can be sure, is a lifetime record.
And to prove just how different the Tammy of Christmas Past is from the Tammy of late 2008/2009, I didn't even make the penuche. And I totally could have. I had all the ingredients just sitting in the cupboard waiting for me. Still do. Calling to me in that sweet, caramel-toned voice. Reminding me that the time for goodwill towards men is OVER, and I could keep that pan of penuche in my underwear drawer with all the lacy things I never wear and no one would be the wiser. Except for you, my secret Internet friends. Except for you.