Death by Fudge

As I wait for the butter to soften for my Christmas fudge, I approach it knowing that what I’m about to do comes from a darker place – a place without Santa watching over his sweatshop getting ready to lash out at eight “tiny” reindeer (poor midget deer, imagine their burden) and madly drive them all over the globe, cackling along the way . It’s a place that doesn’t celebrate Visa or Mastercard. No, it’s much darker. Yes, I’m preparing to “do in” my family.

I came up with the idea while visiting the local Hobby Lobby. There on a shelf were festive tins calling to me. They said, “line me with tissue and fill me with artery clogging goodness. You know you want to. Do it. DO IT!” And I submitted to the dark baking master that is guiding my hand today.

I’ve already flipped through the recipes and settled on the one. Caramel, butter, evaporated milk and nuts… oh yes, perfect – my dark plot unfolds. But just in case, that fudge should fail me, I’m making back-up cookies and cranberry nut bread. You’ve seen it in the movies and on TV – the villain always forgets reinforcements, but not me. I’m prepared with more sweets. Surely, one of those should finish them off.

I plan to cover the offerings with Hershey Kiss Cordials and peppermint. These trusted candies will act as the Judas lamb leading them to the artery slaughter. HO HO HO!

(Ok, ok, the butter isn’t softening fast enough so I had to come up with something to do during the down time. It’s either this or clean toilets. Sheesh! Tough room.)

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