I've heard it's nice to share your fudge. Mostly from people who don't have any.
FUDGE RECIPE ALERT: In the recipe I published on November 30, I say "condensed" milk, because I do things like that. It's really EVAPORATED milk. No Eagle Brand stuff, girls. Save that for eating out of a little rubbermaid bowl stashed in the back of the fridge and disguised as leftover gravy. Like, you know, some people I could name...
The guy across the street, the one who doesn't celebrate Hallowe'en because it's a sinful, pagan holiday rife with overtones of death and mayhem (and who clearly has not read the fine print on the ancient rites of winter solstice which are the embarrassing ancestors of our own Christmas celebration) has rented a cherry picker from which to string nearly 17,000 lights and assorted holiday icons from every square inch of his house, yard, and children.
This has annoyed your husband, who was hoping to get away with plunking a Santa hat on the yard light and calling it festive, but is now feeling those inconvenient stirrings of "Quien es Mas Macho", and is checking with NASA to see if they have an extra shuttle he could mount on the roof behind the eight live reindeer he's having FedExed from Lapland.
Pull out a couple of lawn chairs for you and the neighbor's wife, break out the fudge, and watch the magic unfold.
(Keep the Bactine and rappelling gear handy.)