First, a little necessary background. I have been ecstatically married for more than 42 years now to a man who is, shall we delicately put it, holiday-challenged. Our marriage has weathered many an IOU, many a sheepish last minute gift of money, and many a sincere “You know I love you anyway even though I’m really lousy at getting presents, right?” (And yes, of course I do!)
Even further background must include the childhood memory of my almost equally gift-challenged father, triumphantly returning from a business trip one time bearing a most unbelievable delicacy – a pound of “Goat’s Milk Fudge”, acquired at a roadside stand, and destined to live on in my memory for decades as having been incomparably delicious in a way no other fudge before or since my taste of that one has ever rivaled.
You know how certain memories have a way of becoming mysteriously “enhanced” over the years? And how something rare and difficult to obtain eventually becomes sort of a holy grail – something repeatedly looked for but never again found?
My recollection of that fudge eventually involved ingredients like sugar that could only have been refined from stardust, and chocolate fit only for gods to have combined with mother’s milk from their most sacred animals.
Oh how I pined for just one more chance in this lifetime to sample such perfection.
Now my beloved husband has probably heard me mention this particular memory a time or two over the years, but it was not until just a few summers ago when we found ourselves on a road trip in the Eastern state where my father had found the original product.
Oh how intently I craned my neck at every turn of the road to peer down lanes and driveways as we traversed the rural farm lands. At every roadside stand I scanned for signs promoting that specialty, but alas, there was none to be found.

With resignation, I consigned that childhood experience to the “once in a lifetime” file, and truly gave no more thought to the matter.

Imagine my surprise, months later on Christmas morning, to open one special present, saved for last, carefully wrapped, mysteriously heavy, and presented by my beloved with the biggest most expectant smile I had ever seen.

Goat’s milk fudge – tracked down on the internet, by a man who I never noticed scribble a furtive note to himself on the back of a gas station receipt. He saved that note, and presented it to me along with the gift, and the admission that he had in fact forgotten all about the impulse until months later when he came across the receipt while cleaning out his wallet.

But, once remembered, his fingers flew from page to page on the internet until lo, a package arrived at our house, hastily intercepted upon delivery with some ruse which I never questioned. It was a complete and incredible surprise!

Was the fudge what I remembered from my childhood? Of course not. Did it cost a bundle to have sent from that Pennsylvania dairy farm to Cupertino? It did indeed. Was it worth the trouble and the investment? You bet it was!

He modeled for our sons how even a confirmed holiday-phobic husband can come through big-time with a little thought and a lot of love. Diamonds may be some girls’ best friend, but a gift from the heart? Priceless!