Fudge

In my house, Great Grandma's Fudge has been the hallmark of the Christmas season.  Take your millions of lights and moving Santa lawns and lines of shoppers the day after Thanksgiving.  We knew Christmas had truly arrived when Mom pulled out her huge iron pot and put in four ounces of shaven unsweetened chocolate, two cups of sugar and one cup of milk and began to bring it to a slow rolling boil.

By this time of year in Connecticut, it was cold and snow covered the ground.  We were driven inside to suffer through endless weekend football games.  Then the sweet smell of the confection would reach us in the living room and pull us to the source.  The smell of Christmas was calling.  Mom would gently stir the bubbling concoction and every once in a while, drip some into a cup of cold water.  She would twirl the glass and poke the brown mass in the bottom.  I never knew what she was looking for - some magic moment that I was not yet privy to.  After what seemed an eternity of stirring, dripping and sloshing, she would announce, "It's ready.  Get the plate." 

The plate, the special plate used only for cooling the Fudge.  It is a huge moritaki platter that traveled from Japan and back twice, once to Germany and all over the country during Dad's military career.  The Fudge plate, sacred and honored for its role in this holy holiday.  Ever so carefully, Mom would pour the thick chocolate goo from arm's height to the pot then over a wooden spoon onto the plate.  It spread out slowly in a shiny smooth circle.

Now we waited.  Mom would poke the substance in the plate several times before calling, "It's ready."  She poured a teaspoon of Vanilla Extract on top of the soft shell of chocolate.  The Fudge now became a family project.  With a wooden spoon, we each took turns stirring the mass to mix in air and bring it to a dry but malleable consistency.  Soon, Dad would have to hold the plate while the stirrer used both hands and all his or her body weight to move it through the thickening mass.  All during the process, the trick was to get some of the Fudge on your hand or finger so you had to lick it off.  That was very  important, because you were not allowed to put your hands anywhere near your mouth for the next step.

Sleeves up, hands shining clean we dug into the dough and began kneading and molding it.  Mom would lay out rolls of wax paper as we worked the clay to form logs.  Sometimes, the moisture in your hands would turn it all back into a liquidy mess.  That meant it had not cooked long enough, and we had to start over.

Each log was rolled about 1" in diameter and 6" long.  We laid them on the wax paper, and Mom rolled them up.  The first log she would always cut up and lay out.  When all the Fudge was made, there would be the succulent tidbits waiting for us to wrap our taste buds around.  Ambrosia.  We sighed as the rich confectionary began melting in our mouths. Christmas had truly arrived.

These days, Mom doesn't make the Fudge. She has arthritis and no one to stir it or hold the plate when it gets thick.  I am the official Fudge maker.  I learned what magic sign Mom looked for that told her the Fudge was ready.  My son can hold the plate while I stir, and we can switch.  I cut up the first log, I roll them in the wax paper.  I then wrap them in tin foil, wrapping paper, mailing paper and send them to my brothers' families.  Christmas has arrived, when Great Grandma's Fudge is on the table.

Time to put up the tree.