Every year I stand in front of the stove. Wooden spoon in hand, I stir liquid that is magic, admiring the soft caramel color of the fudge. I make sure to scrape the edges of the pot, to keep the sugar from burning, and I hear a voice encouraging me to be diligent in my task.
Stirring the fudge is my job.
When I am little, I stand on kitchen chairs, scrawny legs poking from beneath my nightgown. I imagine I am a Christmas witch, stirring a bubbly cauldron – the other witches admire me for my mad stirring skills. I imagine I am a chef, creating delectable candies that melt on the tongue – Oprah will invite me to interview on TV. I imagine I am an expert in candy-making, my skills rivaling the best cordon bleu chefs. My ultimate success, a shiny published book for children, so they can make this delectable confection too. And I, seated at my place of honor, will sign my books at the Borders in the mall.
But I am none of these after five minutes, because my arms ache with fatigue, so mom takes over and I run off to play Barbie in another room.
When mom calls me to the kitchen, it is to lick the edges of the bowl — quickly hardening films of chocolate — and wait for the fudge to set. Later the fudge melts in my mouth, and we eat until our stomachs protest.
Indulging is a gift — a privilege — an occasion to mark a moment of sweetness.
Fast-forward: A new reel of film every year or so until there is a library of memories, clouding the hippocampus, brilliant and painful, to ponder at night instead of sleeping.
Lives are built on complex routines and rituals.
As an adult, I stand in front of the stove. Wooden spoon in hand, I stir liquid that is magic, admiring the soft caramel swirls. I make sure to scrape the edges of the pot, to keep the sugar from burning, and I hear a voice encouraging me to be diligent in my task.
Stirring the fudge is my job.
My legs are no longer scrawny, and I sit in the chair while I stir. I balance a book on one knee, because witches aren’t real, Oprah is different, and I prefer independent bookstores. Still, the smell of the fudge is comforting and the process doesn’t take as long as it did when I was a child. My arms don’t get tired, and even if they did, mom isn’t here to take over. For the sake of the product, I soldier on through every potential arm cramp…
Although, it is never as tiring as I remember.
Afterwards I still lick the bowl and eat so much fudge my stomach protests. Yes, I’m old enough to know better. And I’ve heard it all:
- straight from the lips to hips
- you’re fat, don’t eat that
- you’re disgusting
- you have such a pretty face
But indulging is a gift — a privilege — an occasion to mark a moment of sweetness.
Many of my memories aren’t sweet. They are turbulent, rough, exciting, dull — they taste of ash, alcohol, and coffee. They are like living on a ship constantly tossed around by storms — followed by moments of calm.
Making fudge is sweetness, like the ice cream we’d get at the gas station on hot summer days, and the taste of jam made from berries picked fresh each season.
Moving through the motions of making the fudge, scripted by the routine carved from memories, with the confidence of a child born with a wooden spoon in hand, I indulge in the sweetness of the privilege.
Originally from Michigan, Chelsea now writes from the desert of Arizona in the company of her fur-family and partner. Chelsea enjoys hibernating during the summer heat, and is always seeking the appropriate creative outlet to keep herself busy.
