Mount Everest, Czechslovakia and Fudge
Some people see a mountain and, like Sir Edmund Hillary gazing upon Mount Everest, think, "I must climb that mountain." Other people see Czechslovakia and, gambling that Chamberlain will prove to be the limp reed that he must obviously be, think, "I must conquer that country." And other people see a jelly doughnut and think, "I must eat that jelly doughnut."
The other day, I saw a recipe for fudge and thought, "I must make this fudge."
I must say, making fudge is not as easy as eating fudge. One doesn't just toss together some chocolate and whatnot and - voila! - whip out the fudge. It isn't a process for the faint-hearted. The first moment that caused me trepidation was when I realized that chocolate can be stubborn about melting. It sits there in the pan, teetering just on this side of smooth, velvety goodness and mocking the onlooker with its stolidity. I daresay that many a cook at that point would toss in the wooden spoon and go out for a conciliatory cheeseburger.
Another bit of trouble is dealing with the marshmallow cream. Now, I don't know if you've encountered marshmallow cream before in the wild, but it essentially is nothing more than nuclear waste from which all color has been bleached, thus giving it a pure, innocent as the driven snow appearance. However, there's nothing further from the truth. The marshmallow cream possesses sentience. It crouches there in the container, holding its breath in absolute stillness and waiting until one looks away so that it can leap out and work its evil will. The best thing to do is to whip it out of the container as soon as its opened so that the actual work of subduing it is done by the deadly temperature of the melted chocolate.
The last, truly disturbing step in the fudge-making process is cooling the whole mess down. One pours it into a pan, smooths it down and then, theoretically, leaves it be to cool and harden. However, as it drops below the molten temperatures, the mass exudes a dreadful oil from its fissures and cracks, not unlike the oil that oozes from the fissures and cracks in the face of the average teenager caught out in the California summer sunlight. It's at this moment that doubt assails the fudge-chef: "Did I forget an ingredient? Is this toxic? Perhaps I put in Valvoline grease instead of marshmallow cream? Heck - I might as well chuck the whole thing; after all, the rest of my life has been a failure."
I would counsel you to press on at this time, like Sir Edmund Hillary, like Adolf...er - forget that. At any rate, I pressed on and now I have 6.5 pounds of fudge (packed with dried cranberries, pecans, walnuts and cashews) in my refrigerator.
6.5 pounds? What was I thinking?
The other day, I saw a recipe for fudge and thought, "I must make this fudge."
I must say, making fudge is not as easy as eating fudge. One doesn't just toss together some chocolate and whatnot and - voila! - whip out the fudge. It isn't a process for the faint-hearted. The first moment that caused me trepidation was when I realized that chocolate can be stubborn about melting. It sits there in the pan, teetering just on this side of smooth, velvety goodness and mocking the onlooker with its stolidity. I daresay that many a cook at that point would toss in the wooden spoon and go out for a conciliatory cheeseburger.
Another bit of trouble is dealing with the marshmallow cream. Now, I don't know if you've encountered marshmallow cream before in the wild, but it essentially is nothing more than nuclear waste from which all color has been bleached, thus giving it a pure, innocent as the driven snow appearance. However, there's nothing further from the truth. The marshmallow cream possesses sentience. It crouches there in the container, holding its breath in absolute stillness and waiting until one looks away so that it can leap out and work its evil will. The best thing to do is to whip it out of the container as soon as its opened so that the actual work of subduing it is done by the deadly temperature of the melted chocolate.
The last, truly disturbing step in the fudge-making process is cooling the whole mess down. One pours it into a pan, smooths it down and then, theoretically, leaves it be to cool and harden. However, as it drops below the molten temperatures, the mass exudes a dreadful oil from its fissures and cracks, not unlike the oil that oozes from the fissures and cracks in the face of the average teenager caught out in the California summer sunlight. It's at this moment that doubt assails the fudge-chef: "Did I forget an ingredient? Is this toxic? Perhaps I put in Valvoline grease instead of marshmallow cream? Heck - I might as well chuck the whole thing; after all, the rest of my life has been a failure."
I would counsel you to press on at this time, like Sir Edmund Hillary, like Adolf...er - forget that. At any rate, I pressed on and now I have 6.5 pounds of fudge (packed with dried cranberries, pecans, walnuts and cashews) in my refrigerator.
6.5 pounds? What was I thinking?
posted by ToadRocket at 5:17 PM
2 Comments:
send.
some.
our.
way.
I could not be more impressed that a man of your writing abilities chose to write about a recipe when I have avoided the same at all cost. You have given me courage. Those who write of food and fudge are not all insipid mommy bloggers.
Call Lionel for our mailing address.
Heh. Actually, it's a heckuva lot of fudge. I don't know what I was thinking. Correction: I wasn't thinking.
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