By Carol McAdoo Rehme
There's nothing better than a good friend, except a good friend with chocolate.
~Linda Grayson
Her Christmas fudge was a holiday tradition. She made it as gifts for neighbors, relatives, coaches, schoolteachers, business associates, and church families. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, looked forward to receiving a plateful. It was her specialty, and it came out perfectly -- every time. It fully deserved its name: Fantasy Fudge.
In giggling stealth, the two of us stood in her pantry nibbling the last of her secret stash while our husbands and kids played table games downstairs.
"Is there a secret ingredient?" I licked a creamy smear from my fingertip.
"Nope." Vic laughed. "Nothing secret. I just follow the recipe on the marshmallow crème jar."
"Give me a break. It can't be that easy!"
"Yep. It's that easy." She looked at the empty candy plate, stuck it in the dishwasher, and tossed the used plastic wrap into the wastebasket. "Tell you what, let's make another batch and I'll show you."
"Now?"
"Now!"
And she did, in spite of our combined nine children romping through the house in joyous holiday confusion. Ignoring the clamor, Vic did what she does best: whip up a batch of melt-in-your-mouth fudge.
She dissolved the grains of extra-fine sugar into a bowl of fluffy margarine and thick, evaporated milk, and then stirred the mixture on top of the stove with a wooden spoon.
My mouth watered.
"Take the butter wrapper and grease the pan," she ordered, probably to keep my nose away from her bubbly concoction. "And you can chop those pecans, if you'd like to help. Not too fine, though. Leave them a bit chunky."
Vic lifted the heavy pot off the burner. With a practiced hand, she added a generous slosh of real Mexican vanilla and a tumble of chocolate chips. I nearly drooled when she spiraled the hot spoon into the jar; marshmallow crème flowed out in a tidal wave.
"What next?" I asked.
"I stir like crazy." And stir she did, until the concoction was glossy. "Pour in the pecans," she said.
"How many?"
"As many as the fudge can hold."
She held the pot over the prepared pan. Lap upon lap of thick fudge flowed like rich, redolent lava. By twos and threes, a lip-smacking crowd of children and husbands followed the heavenly aroma into the kitchen singing out:
"What's that we smell?"
"Yum!"
"Can we have some?"
But her elder son twisted his lips. "Who's it for this time?"
"You'll see." In one smooth motion, Vic traded the woody evergreen on the center of the gnarled oak table for her steaming masterpiece. Her eyes crinkled at the corners.
"There's only one way to eat fudge," she announced. Dispensing a handful of spoons and ringing us around the table like a crew of wranglers at the chuck wagon, she invited: "Dig in!"
Dig in? Our eyes widened. We looked at each other in disbelief. My husband raised an eyebrow and nodded at the soup bubbling on a burner at the stove; each of us, even the youngest, knew it was time for lunch. Everyone hesitated -- barely -- before a symphony of thirteen spoons clinked and clanked against each other as they plunged around the fringes of warm Fantasy Fudge.
"Oooo."
"Ummm."
"Ahhh."
The hungry horde of us caroled the same, satisfied chorus.
My eyes met Vic's across the crowded table. And that's when I understood. Her recipe might have come straight from the jar, but there was a secret ingredient, too: Indulgence. Decadent, generous, unbridled indulgence.
Vic recognized that sometimes fudge should be made, and eaten, simply for the unrestrained pleasure of it. And, of course, for the warm memory years later.
There's nothing better than a good friend, except a good friend with chocolate.
~Linda Grayson
Her Christmas fudge was a holiday tradition. She made it as gifts for neighbors, relatives, coaches, schoolteachers, business associates, and church families. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, looked forward to receiving a plateful. It was her specialty, and it came out perfectly -- every time. It fully deserved its name: Fantasy Fudge.
In giggling stealth, the two of us stood in her pantry nibbling the last of her secret stash while our husbands and kids played table games downstairs.
"Is there a secret ingredient?" I licked a creamy smear from my fingertip.
"Nope." Vic laughed. "Nothing secret. I just follow the recipe on the marshmallow crème jar."
"Give me a break. It can't be that easy!"
"Yep. It's that easy." She looked at the empty candy plate, stuck it in the dishwasher, and tossed the used plastic wrap into the wastebasket. "Tell you what, let's make another batch and I'll show you."
"Now?"
"Now!"
And she did, in spite of our combined nine children romping through the house in joyous holiday confusion. Ignoring the clamor, Vic did what she does best: whip up a batch of melt-in-your-mouth fudge.
She dissolved the grains of extra-fine sugar into a bowl of fluffy margarine and thick, evaporated milk, and then stirred the mixture on top of the stove with a wooden spoon.
My mouth watered.
"Take the butter wrapper and grease the pan," she ordered, probably to keep my nose away from her bubbly concoction. "And you can chop those pecans, if you'd like to help. Not too fine, though. Leave them a bit chunky."
Vic lifted the heavy pot off the burner. With a practiced hand, she added a generous slosh of real Mexican vanilla and a tumble of chocolate chips. I nearly drooled when she spiraled the hot spoon into the jar; marshmallow crème flowed out in a tidal wave.
"What next?" I asked.
"I stir like crazy." And stir she did, until the concoction was glossy. "Pour in the pecans," she said.
"How many?"
"As many as the fudge can hold."
She held the pot over the prepared pan. Lap upon lap of thick fudge flowed like rich, redolent lava. By twos and threes, a lip-smacking crowd of children and husbands followed the heavenly aroma into the kitchen singing out:
"What's that we smell?"
"Yum!"
"Can we have some?"
But her elder son twisted his lips. "Who's it for this time?"
"You'll see." In one smooth motion, Vic traded the woody evergreen on the center of the gnarled oak table for her steaming masterpiece. Her eyes crinkled at the corners.
"There's only one way to eat fudge," she announced. Dispensing a handful of spoons and ringing us around the table like a crew of wranglers at the chuck wagon, she invited: "Dig in!"
Dig in? Our eyes widened. We looked at each other in disbelief. My husband raised an eyebrow and nodded at the soup bubbling on a burner at the stove; each of us, even the youngest, knew it was time for lunch. Everyone hesitated -- barely -- before a symphony of thirteen spoons clinked and clanked against each other as they plunged around the fringes of warm Fantasy Fudge.
"Oooo."
"Ummm."
"Ahhh."
The hungry horde of us caroled the same, satisfied chorus.
My eyes met Vic's across the crowded table. And that's when I understood. Her recipe might have come straight from the jar, but there was a secret ingredient, too: Indulgence. Decadent, generous, unbridled indulgence.
Vic recognized that sometimes fudge should be made, and eaten, simply for the unrestrained pleasure of it. And, of course, for the warm memory years later.
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