This is one of those 75-worders that coalesced from several different tiny fragments of stories I'd heard over the years. It made me smile writing it, so I hope it does the same when you've read it.
When they couldn’t find the brandy Grandpa brought out a dusty old bottle from the back of the larder, after sniffing the contents, he poured it onto the Christmas Pudding. As dad approached with the lit match there was a white flash and a scream as a high velocity silver sixpence hit Granny on the forehead. Scattered across the kitchen, superheated sultanas went bang. Of the pudding itself, nothing remained, save a charred sprig of holly.
Until next time.