My neighborhood’s big bash, the annual Christmas party, was
held last Saturday night, and everyone who planned to attend was asked to bring
a potluck dish or dessert for the buffet table. So I decided I was going to
make my famous peanut-butter fudge.
In my younger days, I made the fudge for just about every
special occasion and it always came out looking picture-perfect, as if it had
just leapt right off the pages of an award-winning cookbook. And it tasted
heavenly – so much so, that whenever I asked someone what to bring to a party
or gathering, the answer always was the same: “Bring your delicious
peanut-butter fudge!”
So I was ready to wow everyone at the neighborhood Christmas
party and treat them to a big batch of my to-die-for fudge. Little did I know
that the word “die” might have been just slightly prophetic.
The morning of the party, I assembled all of my ingredients
and then started to prepare the fudge. The problem was, it had been a few years
since I’d last made it. Almost immediately, I began to realize I might have forgotten how to do a few things – like tell when the mixture was cooked to the
“just right” stage before adding the peanut butter and the marshmallow creme. I
was pretty certain, however, that cooking the fudge would be like riding a
bike. Once I started making it, all of the steps automatically would fall into
place and the fudge would turn out just great, as always.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
I ended up removing the fudge from the
stove much too soon, which resulted in a final product that was the consistency
of frosting. And when I tasted it, my teeth instantly stuck together, making me fear I would have to learn ventriloquism just so I would be able to communicate
with people again.
Determined, I made a second batch of fudge and cooked it a
few minutes longer. Unfortunately, I cooked it a little TOO long and the sugar
crystallized into something that closely resembled a peanut-butter geode.
“Give up!” the sane part of my brain told myself. “It’s
obvious you’ve lost your touch and can’t make fudge any more. Raise the white
flag, surrender, and bring something else to the party – something simple and
foolproof, like a bag of Oreo cookies or a box of Ritz crackers.”
By then, I’d run out of two major ingredients to make more
fudge anyway – peanut butter and evaporated milk. I did briefly consider running down to the supermarket, but a big
snowstorm was predicted to start within a half-hour and the last place I wanted
to be when it hit was miles from home. There was only one other alternative – a
little convenience store only a short distance away. I was pretty sure I could
get there and back before the storm started. So I threw on my coat and ran out
to my car.
When I arrived at the convenience store, I raced through the
short aisles and grabbed a jar of peanut butter and a can of evaporated milk,
then brought them up to the register.
The price of the peanut butter at my favorite supermarket always was $2.39, and the evaporated milk, 99 cents, so I took a $5 bill out of my purse
and then waited for my items to be rung up.
“That will be $8.35,” the clerk said.
I laughed. “You’re joking! How much is it really?”
She didn’t smile. “It’s $8.35.”
I couldn’t believe it. For that price, I figured the food
should be delivered to my house…by limousine. Even more difficult to believe was I actually paid the $8.35.
Desperation and the approaching storm obviously had rendered me incapable of
thinking any rational thoughts at that moment.
I rushed home with my precious bag of ingredients and headed
straight to the kitchen, where I once again set to work preparing another batch
of fudge. Seeing that my first batch had been too soft and the second batch,
too hard, I was positive I finally knew how to time this batch just right to
produce the perfect fudge.
The fudge’s consistency turned out much better, to my
relief. I spread it out in the pan and
let it set, pleased at how nice it looked.
But a weird thing happened as it cooled, something I’d never before experienced
in all my years of fudge making. An oil slick, big enough to rival the one
caused by the Exxon Valdez, began to form on top of the fudge.
I grabbed a paper towel and frantically began to dab the oil
with it. The more I dabbed, the more oil seemed to form, until the paper towel
was so saturated, I could have wrapped it around a stick, lit it and used it
for a torch.
That did it. I threw in the towel (the oil-slicked one) and
admitted defeat. I was convinced my fudge-making days were over. And to make
matters worse, I also was going to have to suffer the added humiliation of
arriving empty-handed at the party.
The snow arrived on schedule and with a vengeance as the
hour of the party drew closer. If the gathering hadn’t been only a few houses
up from mine, I wouldn’t even have bothered to go out that night. Even so, I
toyed with the idea of not showing up, not only because I had nothing to bring,
but also because I was feeling an overwhelming sense of guilt – for having
wasted enough peanut butter in a single day to make sandwiches to feed about
5000 starving people.
As I was getting ready to leave for the party, I happened to
glance at the pan of fudge still sitting on the counter. The oil slick was
gone! I grabbed a knife and cut a piece
of the fudge and tasted it. It was delicious, and the consistency was perfect!
I didn’t know if the fudge fairies secretly had visited my
kitchen while I was in the shower, or if the oil had reabsorbed back into the
fudge. All I knew was it looked appealing and tasted fine. I guess you could
call it the Great Fudge Christmas Miracle of 2017.
I quickly cut the fudge into squares and then carefully
placed them into a festive container.
Still, when I arrived at the party and handed it to the hostess, I
prayed she wouldn’t open the container and find a blob of peanut-butter putty
sitting on the bottom of it.
But the fudge turned out to be a hit, and one woman even
asked me for the recipe.
“Peanut-butter fudge is my family’s favorite!” she gushed.
The truth was, I had no idea how I finally ended up making
that darned fudge. And even if I had known, how was I supposed to
discreetly warn the woman about the potential risk of an oil slick? Add a roll
of paper towels to the recipe?
“The ingredients are a well-kept family secret,” I said,
smiling mysteriously. “I’d be disowned if I ever divulged them to anyone.”
Next year, I’m bringing a bag of potato chips to the party.
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