Fudge Zombies

Normally civilized people lose all control over fudge. My short story critique group consists of educated, well spoken writers you would be proud to sit next to at any event. They close their mouths when they chew, seldom hiccup, and excuse themselves after burping. They sip their coffee and tea quietly. They listen intently without cutting others off.
We have had a variety of baked goods at our monthly meetings, held at a member's home. No one hogs the refreshments, nor are people shamed into sampling the exquisite sugar laden delicacies. This system worked well until our last meeting. Every mysterious plate was covered with foil. The discussion was so intense no one was eating.
Except me. I innocently, out of curiosity, peeled off the foil from one plate and almost gasped. Fudge. In perfect squares, bite sized, incomparable fudge. I quickly snatched two pieces, figuring as soon as the others spotted it, all hell would break loose. But no one moved. I stress I did nothing to disguise my treasure as I took tiny bites, wanting the sensation to last. Still no one attacked the plate.
I took another square. Swallowed it whole. I knew if I didn't say anything I would consume the whole plate and the person who made it would be furious. So I said one word: fudge. I pointed to the plate. There was a pause; then, like crazed zombies, all six of them converged on the coffee table, growling, snorting, drooling, grasping with both hands, pushing and elbowing, slobbering, bestial, single minded.
When the fudge massacre ended, several writers lay on the floor, curled into a fetal position. That is the sacred magic of fudge.
Me? While they were preoccupied, I uncovered another plate full of sugar covered lemon bars, extraordinary in themselves. Just not fudge.