This weekend, while all the kids were here, I made the announcement that I was going to make my famous fudge for Christmas this year. That proclamation netted the following remarks:
"Not again this year!"
and, "Please don't"
When I was a kid I loved my mom's fudge that she made every Christmas. It was hard and grainy and delicious. When my older sister got married and moved out of the house she started making her own fudge during the holidays. When I sampled her's I was disappointed. It was soft, and creamy. I felt sorry for my sister, being a complete failure at fudge making and all. Didn't she use Mom's recipe? No, she used another one. She like it better. That was when I first suspected that my mother may have been the failure at making fudge.
So, one Christmas, when the girls were little, I called Mom and asked her for her recipe. I'd make my own. I cooked it and cooked in a cast iron skillet just the way I had observed it done when I was a kid. I beat it and beat it and turned it out on wax paper. I went to the drawer for a knife and when I returned to the fudge (30 seconds later) it couldn't be sliced! I had to break it into chunks. It was just the way I liked it.
So, this Christmas eve, I'm making a batch of fudge, hard and grainy, even though I might be the only one eating it.