Sometimes I like to remember Christmas from years past. Oh for the days when I could eat real food and not worry about my evil doctor telling me I will be dead before New Year’s Day.

When I was a kid, I was skinny…very skinny. I was so skinny my mom and grandma decided I should be taken to the a doctor.

I’m not sure what the doctor said or what internal organ they hacked out of me, but I do know my relationship with doctors have been shaky ever since.

However, the good part of my trip to the doctor was I was allowed to eat candy until I had a near-death experience.

My favorite was divinity.

My grandmother made divinity of different colors and she always stacked them on this three tier, silver serving tray.

Peanut brittle was also on the tray, which I hated. For some reason peanut brittle was a big hit for my grandma and her friends. I just remember my mouth was cemented shut for five minutes after eating it, so I couldn’t figure out the draw. Maybe dentures were the secret.

But grandma’s divinity was food from another world. For some reason I liked the pale green ones the best. I think they were probably all the same, except for food coloring, but I was easily swayed by my stomach and twisted imagination.

Nothing could match my grandma’s divinity.

That is until my wife, Ginny, made her plum pudding a few years after we were married.

Ginny said it was a tradition in her family. When Ginny described it to me I had been married to her long enough to have learned to nod and smile even though I though it sounded like fermented barf.

Believe me I had reason to think my life was in danger. This was like no plum pudding recipe I had heard of or have read about since.

Ginny started making the stuff the day after Thanksgiving. She would whip up this secret concoction from suet and a slurry of secret mumbo jumbo glop of something, something, something. It was frightening.

After mushing this goo together she pounded it into a 3-pound coffee can and it sat on the back porch rotting until Christmas.

Now I ask you, what was I to think?

On Christmas Eve I ran to the liquor store and bought the strongest hooch I could find, hoping I could kill it with booze and fire before it killed me.

Our two children were seated around the table when Ginny unveiled her mystery.

My daughter Katy took one look and said politely, “I’m not eating that stuff unless you kill me.”

My son was younger, more trusting and willing to eat nearly anything that appeared dead enough not to run away.

My job was to light the booze and not burn the house down. I considered that multitasking.

I lit the match and the little mountain of brown burst into flames. Katy dove under the table. Fortunately the flame didn’t quite reach the ceiling.

I thought I’d killed it for sure, but the flame died and my date with destiny had arrived.

I had no choice. I told Ginny how wonderful it looked and she gave me the biggest portion. Katy waited patiently for me to croak.

Ginny poured hard sauce over it, which was made of white sugar, butter and rum, and set it in front of me.

I will never know how she did it, but Ginny had made the best dessert ever eaten. Even better than grandma’s divinity.

The flavor was sweet, complex and satisfying. It was incredible. It was truly food from heaven.

I think about it every year, every Christmas. The recipe is lost, but the memory of that plum pudding and Christmas Eve dinner will never leave me.

Merry Christmas.