Flashes of Panic

I started making fudge for the holidays sometime in high school. The first few batches at Thanksgiving and Christmas were well received, and I reached a point where I was making three or four batches for distribution each Christmas. I acquired a big pot (also used for the occasional batch of chili) and a candy thermometer (like this one ,) a wonderfully industrial piece of kitchenware with a brushed-metal dial and red needle. I experimented with white chocolate (well received, but softer than the regular stuff) and peppermint (not bad, but the hot fudge tended to boil off the peppermint extract without taking much flavor from it.)

Demand tapered off recently, and last year I think I only made one batch at Christmas and skipped Thanksgiving. Since this year’s Thanksgiving is being hosted by rookies, I figured once I had the requested rolls baked (yes, I made rolls,) I’d pitch in a batch of fudge. I’ll bring part of it up to the town where much of the rest of my family is eating, at the suggestion of one of my cat-sitters.

Making fudge is relatively simple (if you’ve got one of the red-plaid Better Homes and Gardens cookbooks, and it has the “Remarkable Fudge” recipe, that’s what I use.) It’s fascinating to watch, though. You start with evaporated milk, butter, and all the sugar you can find in a big saucepan (the biggest you own,) and you heat it for a good long time. The first few times, I would just stir tediously until the candy thermometer showed the right temperature, then dump in the chocolate, vanilla, and marshmallow, stir and pour. After I’d watched more carefully, though, I could see the syrup go through at least two intermediate state changes on the way to the final state. Getting it to that final state is important, too; if it’s not cooked hot enough, it won’t set up properly in the pan, and the result will be gooier than fudge should really be.

I’ll find out for certain about this batch tomorrow, but based on licking off the stirring spoon, I think it’s a winner.

Now Playing: Released from Winter Pays for Summer by Glen Phillips