Let’s begin with a full disclosure: What you are about to read is not my best attempt at cooking.
Last week, I decided to make a batch of homemade fudge for Christmas. My mother always made the best fudge ever during the holiday season, and for the past few years, I’ve tried to duplicate her mastery at fudge making. Some years have been better than others, but this year’s was the worst ever.
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Despite the fact that I had not made fudge in a year, it began well. The sugar, cocoa and milk mixture came to its rolling boil and, stirring it often, I let it reach the soft-ball candy stage. That’s when everything started to go downhill. I noticed the chocolate was still sitting on the counter where I’d left it, and it ought to have been added long before it had cooked to that beautiful soft-ball stage that every candy maker longs for. Without thinking, I dumped it all into the candy.
The language that followed was not, shall we say, temperate. Momma, I hope you weren’t listening up there with the angels.