Making Fudge, According to Girl

Making Fudge according to Girl: One of my favorite current shows on television is called "The Closer." Kyra Sedgwick, who plays the adorable Deputy Chief Brenda Leigh Johnson, the driven, transplanted from the south, right by the book, emotional, menopausal chief.
She is respected and admired. On last night’s show, two of the detectives working under her were having a rocky affair. She was ending a long day, alone and relieved to be finished working. Brenda Leigh pulled out what looked like a chocolate bar, nibbled a corner off, when suddenly her door opened, revealing two of her bright young detectives in the middle of a mindless spat. With the toughness and melodramatic mindset of one very angry boss, she slam dunked her chocolate bar into the trash basket.

After promptly dealing with their issues and laying down the rules in her blunt matter-of-fact way, she dismissed them. Once they left, she remained sitting at her desk cultivating an angry countenance. Then, remembering the discarded chocolate bar, she dove into the trash, retrieved and ate it.

I think back to the time when our girls were young. We would sit down for dinner together, and Mike and I would patiently wait for them to tell us the storyline of the shows they had watched after school on those afternoons. From the intro to the end, we would hear all about Sesame Street, The Brady Bunch, The Partridge Family and the Smurfs.

These shows became part of our dinnertime each evening. They were, in fact, the major topic of conversation, keeping all of us so engrossed that it could be difficult to request the salt to be passed. It was important to listen to our little girls. I wonder where they got it from. Who passed that gene down to our five and six year old?

I have to admit that I would have done the same thing Brenda Leigh did—I would have jumped in the trash can for chocolate, I would grovel for fudge, I would lick the pan until all traces were gone.

Mike got the recipe from his mom, and we would take it out of the three-ring binder at least one Saturday evening each month. We would open up the sugar, cocoa, butter, vanilla and milk. We even experimented with different typs of fudge, from the Mackinaw famous recipe to the sugary crispy crunchy style. It didn’t matter to us—they all were good.

One of the nice things about making fudge is that it takes a lot of practice (which means there has to be a lot of taste testing). One of the recipes had us drop a small amount of the boiling fudge into a cup of cold water. We would do this time after time, until the perfect state of creamy chocolatey "yummyness" had been attained. We would know we were there when the fudge could be formed into a soft ball in the cold water.

Of course, tasting was the only perfect way to tell for sure that the fudge was cooking properly. This was my job. I was the taster. Much like a wine taster from the vineyards in Southern France, I would smell it, wafting it gently toward my face, I would examine the colors, the uniformity, the bouquet and finally, the taste. I would then pause for a moment, my eyes staring into space.

But, unlike professional wine tasters, I never spit the fudge out.

So, as the story ends, Brenda Leigh closes her eyes, reflects on the tough decisions, the important office she holds, her charges, and the terribly difficult job she has.

With her finger she wipes off the chocolate that remains in the corners of her mouth, and then slowly licks her finger clean.

There she is, alone at the end of the day, sliding down in her chair, kicking off her shoes, and in her famous Southern-fried fast talk, she addresses the empty chocolate wrapper, and says, "Thank you, thank you so much."

Chapter 32 - Making Fudge

According to Boy: From the time I was in the eighth grade I could make fudge. I learned from my sister. I remember telling her once that I preferred her fudge to any other. She loved the compliment.
"Really? What do you like about it?" she asked.

"It’s grainy," I said. "I love it that way."

I was serious. I liked my fudge on the grainy side. Little did I know she made every effort to cook smooth fudge; but, for some reason, it always turned out grainy.

So, that’s how I learned to make fudge. I would take the batch off the stove before the mixture produced the firm little ball when dripped into cool water. That way it would be slightly undercooked, and would be grainy when cooled. That was just the way I liked it.

After Evie and I got married, she would sometimes help me make fudge. As with everything she endeavored to do, she would first read the instructions.

"I don’t think it’s quite done yet," she said, trying to form the little blob of fudge into a firm ball at the bottom of a bowl of cool water. "The directions say we should cook it on low heat until a drop can be formed into a soft ball when dropped in cool water."

"This is how I always do it. I think it’s done."

"Let’s follow the instructions," she insisted. "Just for the fun of it."

I knew she would burn it, but I went along with her request nevertheless. I poured her a soda, and just stood back to observe the impending disaster. I did not wish it on her, but I knew it was inevitable.

She lowered the flame to the minimum, and stirred the brown, bubbling concoction as directed. At least fifteen minutes later she exclaimed, "Look, it’s a ball. I can even pick it up."

And she did. She picked the little ball of fudge and popped it into her mouth. "Umm, that’s really good. Let me get one for you."

She took the spoon and dripped a little of the fudge into the water. "See how this sticks together?" She then formed it into a little ball, and put it in my mouth.

I have to admit that it was good.

She removed the fudge from the heat, and stirred it until it started to thicken, then poured it into a buttered pan. When it had cooled, she cut it into pieces. It was perfectly smooth, with no grains.

We have probably cooked fudge together more than a hundred times since then. Almost every time it has turned out perfect. There was, however, one instance when it did not.

For some reason I decided to overcook it. When it reached the stage when it could be formed into a ball, I just kept cooking it. I think I might have had Harvey Firestone in mind, the day he made synthetic rubber. I cooked it and cooked it. I was careful not to burn it, however.

Finally, I started cooling it. It took only a few seconds to start getting hard after I had removed it from the stove. Immediately I poured it into a buttered pan, and set it aside to cool.

When I returned to cut it, I found that I could not even dent it. It had hardened into a single block of brown glass. I popped it out of the cooling pan in a single piece. Taking it in both hands, I tried to break it. Nothing happened.

I then took the handle of a butter knife, and smacked it a good one. It dented, but did not break. I struck it again, this time a little bit harder. Still no success. So I hit it again.

This time I knocked it right out of my hand, across the kitchen and onto the floor. I was amazed to see it shatter into a dozen pieces. I gathered up the larger pieces, and put them in a dish.

Evie and I agreed that the three second rule could be applied here. That rule stated that when you dropped something on the floor, if you picked it up within three seconds, it was still good. In this case, I had started picking up the pieces of fudge within the time allowed, so it was all good. Besides, we had spent altogether too much time on that batch of fudge to just throw it away.

It was terrific. You could suck on a piece of that fudge for fifteen minutes. It would slowly dissolve in your mouth. If you tried to chew it at all, it would dislodge every filling in your mouth.

It did last an inordinately long time—it was just too difficult to eat.

Finally, after about a week, we threw away all that remained uneaten. I have tried to duplicate that batch of fudge, but with no success.

The Real Skinny: "It was hotter than blazes and we were really careful not to burn our fingers"

The real skinny (according to Girl): I really believe it took the two of us—one to drop in and the other to fish out. It was hotter than blazes and we were really careful not to burn our fingers.

We did make towers, as we watched Johnny Carson, we would munch. Mike kissing my ketchup mouth was a bit imagined, but it would have been a possibility.

Philadelphia did not have a stove that was capable of producing the yummy treats. I guess it just didn’t get hot enough.

And, Charlie was only fourteen.

Onion Rings, According to Girl

Onion rings according to Girl: Simple pleasures. They were golden, round, crispy, salty, dripping with hot oil and melted in your mouth. I’m not sure where the recipe came from, we used large sweet onions, beaten eggs, flour, milk, salt and a small teaspoon of baking powder. The oil was hot, one of us (usually I was appointed this task) gently placed the rings, covered with the mix into the large cast iron frying pan. When they rose to the surface, Mike would turn them, and when they browned on the second side, he pulled the masterpiece from the bubbling oil and placed it on a paper towel. Taste testing as we moved through the tower of rings, we finally found ourselves sitting on the floor, watching Johnny Carson, the rings between us, ketchup bottle in hand and yes, we could finish that huge onion in one sitting.
 
 

We were not so much into cooking. As we fed each other onion rings, ketchup would cover our faces like an eager bride and groom jamming their pieces of frosting covered wedding cake in each other’s mouths.

There were, however, no guests, no cameramen, no flashbulbs, and no preachers. He didn’t have a tux and I didn’t have a wedding dress, so we got messy. Yes, Mike found it most interesting to kiss my ketchup covered face.

I wondered what Charlie thought of that. He was fourteen. The age when boys are starting to think about girls. Having "just married" Mike and Evie on the other side of that bedroom wall must have peaked a bit of his curiosity.

The bed would hit the wall, the rhythms and laughter would make a sailor blush. We spent those weekends as most newlyweds, enjoying the elixirs of our fresh new relationship, along with the onion rings.

Chapter 31 - Onion Rings

According to Boy: I think Evie came up with all these food-related topics while sitting in Schuler’s Music and Bookstore Chapbook Cafe—they do make the best-smelling sandwiches.

Back in the 1960s and 70s, Evie and I used to make the best onion rings. I don’t think we found the recipe in a book. It sounds like something that she heard about from one of the girls at her bank.

I recall her coming home and telling me that she just found out how to make onion rings. We decided to make them on the next Friday night. So, Friday after work, we jumped in the Mustang and went out shopping.

"You’re not gonna believe this," she told me. "All we need are some large onions, corn oil, salt and pancake mix. We’ve already have the salt and oil, so all we need to buy are large onions and pancake mix."

"And Red Ripple," I added.

"Right."

We were living in Glendale at the time, so we found the onions and the pancake mix at our favorite nearby A&P, along with something cold to drink.

When we got back home, I poured us each a glass, and asked: "What can I do to help?"

"Don’t worry. You just take Mister for his walk, and I’ll make the onion rings. There’s nothing to it."

I took her at her word, and took Mister down to the cemetery to get his business done.

When I arrived back at our apartment, the most delicious smell was wafting down the steps. "Smells like onion rings to me," I thought.

"How do they taste?" I asked.

"I waited for you," she said, pouring ketchup onto a plate. Careful not to burn her fingers, she picked one up, dipped it in ketchup, and held it out for me to take a bite.

I had never tasted a better onion ring in my life.

We finished that batch, and made another, and another.

"We’re gonna be sick if we don’t stop eating these," I said.

"Yeah, I know, but aren’t they wonderful?"

"Should I cook some pizza, or something?" I asked.

"I couldn’t eat another bite of anything," she said, "but you could pour me another glass of soda."

The onion rings set well with both of us. We determined to do that again, and soon. I think we made onion rings at least a couple of times a month. When we moved into the East Village, we continued making and enjoying our newly discovered recipe.

Strangely enough, when we moved to Philadelphia, one of the first things we wanted to do was to make our famous onion rings. However, we had an electric range there, as opposed to gas. Try as we might, we could not get that stove to heat the oil hot enough to make decent onion rings. They just sort of set in the oil getting more saturated than browned. I guess it wasn’t as easy as we thought.

The Real Skinny: "I would mix the dough and he would put it on the cookie sheet"

The real skinny (according to Girl): Sorry, Mike, Chef Boyardee Pizza put grated Parmesan, not mozzarella, into the second can in their box. I would mix the dough and he would put it on the cookie sheet. We found that if we buttered the cookie sheet, all except the corners, we could get the rubbery dough to adhere to those corners. Mr. and Mrs. Colombo were part of my "story." I developed the characters from the mixture of people anxious to help us with our Friday night feast.

Making Pizza, According to Girl

Making pizza according to Girl: Drizzled in soft white melted mozzarella cheese, dripping with pepperoni grease, buried in fresh mushrooms, onions and jalapenos with a sprinkle of oregano. Thought I died and went to heaven every time our oven began to bake the gourmet feast each Friday night.


It did not begin that way. Back in the Midwest (where we both grew up) we were not experienced in the culinary arts. Generally speaking, if something did not come out of a can or box, we would not know what to do with it. That’s why we looked first to Chef Boyardee Pizza kits, then gradually evolved our pizza baking to encompass our additions.

The small Italian grocery store on Myrtle Avenue was run by a husband and wife team. He was graying, in his fifties, plump, mustached, and always wearing a pair of black-rimmed glasses. He was very knowledgeable on cheese and wine choices. She ran the register.

When we would go into the store, we would first spot him in his long white apron. It looked to be cleaned and pressed every morning. His wife was short, thin, her brown hair (which also had streaks of gray) was always pulled back in a bun. She had beautiful brown eyes that bore a kind of sadness. I think it was because they had no children. The little shop was their life. The customers were their family. They were interested in each person who came into the store and got to know each of us by name.

So, after work, I stopped in to see them. The wooden door with the brass bell announced my entrance. I was interested in creating a genuine, authentic, Italian style pizza. I mentioned that to Mrs. Colombo and her countenance immediately changed to that of an excited little mama. She yelled out, "Hey Giuseppe, Evie’s making pizza for Mike tonight and wants some help." He was busy in the back, unpacking some Italian wines but, when she called out, he immediately came hustling through the small doorway from the back stock room smiling.

Together we went through the ingredients I would need to buy. Then we discussed the preparation of the crust, the process of yeast in the dough that would make it rise, the chopping of the onions and mushrooms. I was not totally oblivious to the workings of the kitchen, but I graciously let them guide me. They were so excited about the big night. They pointed out the pepperoni; that it was in a cooler with many other types of sausages. They put a medium-sized portion in my bag with the other items I was purchasing.

One of the reasons I had wanted help was the cheese. Normally, we had just sprinkled a bit of parmesan from the box and called it good. This time my mission was to find the white bubbly, drippy, stringy cheese that usually topped restaurant pizzas. That’s the cheese I wanted to crown our creation this special night.

The Columbos took me over to the other end of the shop, to the cheese cooler. Their large cheese selection was incredible. I had never heard of most of them. There were various types of American cheeses, Swiss, French, and Italian. There was cheese made from the milk of goats, cows and sheep. Some were hard, and some soft, some yellow, and some white. Some cheeses had holes, some did not. This Velveeta-raised girl definitely needed help.

"Mozzarella," she said. "That’s what you really need to make pizza." It is the whitest, softest, wettest cheese. It would be the piece de resistance.

And so it began. Our Friday night tradition. "Salud" to the Columbos.

An old Italian toast: "May your life be like good wine, tasty, sharp, and clear. And like good wine, may it improve with every passing year. Salud!"