Many Christmas seasons ago, a malicious acquaintance of mine got me a plum pudding. We prepared it, spread it with hard sauce, and ate it. Its taste and texture sang of horseshit bundled with raisins and steamed in parchment -- it was so dreadful that I simply had to have it again the following year.

I thought of that stuff just now as I picked over the half-stack of strufoli that's still congealing on the kitchen counter. I offered some to Alane but she is still reeling from the Stollen that I brought home last night. It was a high-density slab of pre-stressed concrete marbled with raisins, fruits, and marzipan spackle. It too was perfectly dreadful -- so much in fact that I had to have a slice with my coffee this morning.

What is it about the holidays that makes us long for the nastiest of baked treats?