My oldest daughter, Mara, makes a big pan of it for me every Christmas. She knows I like anything she makes — like most parents, I’m shamelessly sentimental — but my delight over the fudge is especially keen. It doesn’t matter that this year it’s no “surprise.” In years past, we’d conspire to create some mystery until it was time to open gifts, but this Christmas, when I pick up Mara and Sara at their mother’s house for our holiday visit, the secret’s out. She’s made two pans this year, and they’re too big to hide. Besides, she’s nearly eleven and too old, alas, to be excited by her Dad’s feigned surprise. Standing by the car, she hands me the aluminum foil-wrapped pans to put beside her suitcase. She shrugs and says, “This is the fudge.” Then she glances at me uncertainly and sighs. “Is it OK I told you?” “Sure,” I say, hoping it doesn’t sound like a lie.