Who knew?

The other day I ruined two batches of fudge and it sent me into a depression spiral. Who knew all my happiness and self-confidence rested on my ability to boil and stir and stir and stir for 11 minutes straight on into chocolate perfection? But, after the fiascoes I was in a funk. It just didn't feel like Christmas anymore. I am living in this mess of a house that I cannot escape with a defective stove to boot. Woe is me! But thankfully, everything is back on track. I have had fudge success and life is rosy again. I'm smiling. Suddenly I feel like all the things that were impossible are possible and the desolation of my life is not so dark as it seemed before. Suddenly I have Christmas carols in my head and everything is right in the world again. Yay! Who knew fudge had so much power?

Chance mentioned that although I don't remember it this way, this is a Christmas ritual for me. Apparently I always have a few disasters before I get in my groove and things get all magical in the kitchen. Hmmm ... I've decided this is probably his fault for moving me around the world forcing me to get acquainted with different atmospheric conditions, new kitchens and stoves all the time. Maybe if we finally "settle down" for awhile I could go a few years without wasting a few pounds of butter and sugar at Christmastime.

Some people don't really like fudge. But making fudge is one of my favorite Christmas traditions. My mother's fudge recipe is an edible masterpiece. The recipe is difficult, but worthy of the Nobel prize. It has been a holiday tradition my entire life (or at least since I was old enough to lick the spoon). Back in the days before Kitchenaid civilized the world with their fancified mixers, my mother slaved her way to arthritis making fudge during the holidays. She stirred that bubbling, boiling pot on the stove continuously for 20 minutes and then dumped that lovely potion into a bowl full of chocolate yumminess. She continued stirring like a madwoman for another half hour until the fudge became the right (really thick) consistency. By the end of the hour, mom's arm was useless and I was made to do all the cleaning. (Especially the toilets. I remember them well.) And then to add to the torture the fudge had to set in the fridge for 12 hours before we could eat it! But when that moment came, when we could taste the hallowed chocolate, it was glorious. All the cleaning, the toilets, the waiting...it was all worth it. Its a different feeling now when I make it in my own kitchen. In my youth, the anticipation is what made it such a treasure. Now, it is not the waiting, but the work; the labour of my hands that makes its all so valuable to me. We all have our treasured labors ... the hunter his game; the fisherman his fish. Me? I have fudge.

Hello beautiful.