To the reader who has been checking my blog regularly, even though I haven’t posted since April, I salute you! I have been meaning to write, however I have been utterly uninspired, so I guess I will write about what I did on my summer vacation. Right at the beginning of summer [insert whimsical man voice here] I confronted Fudge. Fudge is a fickle beast, and it needs taming. One year ago I began this journey, but I was naive to the trials that such a candy can bring. I began with a seemingly simple recipe, like Hershey’s or Betty Crocker. I had my sweetened condensed milk and my vanilla, and my cocoa powder. I prepped my ingredients as according to plan, I mixed them, but it all went south at the stove. First came stirring, then came burning, and then came pan of rock hard shiny tar like substance. I wished I had a picture, it was a gnarly mess. The next try ended with scalded milk and a broken thermometer in the pot. The third try was not until a year later, and it was just a pan of delicious goo. By my third try I felt I knew what I was doing wrong and made one more attempt with the same recipe the good came from. By the fourth try with recipe, courtesy of Bust magazine and the movie Cry Baby I made this
Now, I don’t know about you, but I think that’s fudge. The overwhelming joy was to an immeasurable extent. It was creamy, with just enough texture and just enough bite. It melted in my mouth like butter on a sidewalk. They were, dare I say it, “like buttah”. The fudge was no longer a scary insurmountable thing to make, like facing a gigantic purple monster. Making fudge (for the forth, fifth, and sixth time) became a very manageable and enjoyable task, like facing a small puppy dog. Fudge became fudge.
