My mom is an amazing cook. Her children, unfortunately, are rotten eaters.
At some point in the first years of my life, Mom was experimenting with fudge recipes. She had a tendency to do many things at once and more often than not, the fudge tended to sit in its little pot longer than intended. With a sigh she would chisel it out of the pot and put the broken pieces in the fridge with better hopes next time.
I remember, as vividly as I remember the sewing maching sewing my finger all the way through searching for the burnt fudge in the back of the fridge and thinking it was the most heavenly edible thing ever. It is dry but not too flaky, rich, wonderful.
I had no idea it was not exactly as intended and was naively content that it could be replicated at any time. In the years to come, I was to learn just how mistaken I was... because, you see, my mother finally started not burning it. And the world was forever changed.
For the last fifteen years or so, since the discovery was made that she couldn't intentionally burn it to perfection, I have been hoping against hope that she would perfect the burning process again. Alas, in that time the fudge has come out perfectly burnt only two or three times. Other times, I nod encouragingly and promise I am not too disappointed. You see, my burnt bliss lies in a narrow window between just normal fudge and so burnt Mom has to throw away the pan.
The last time she made it perfect it was unfortunately done exactly as it was in the old days - she simply forgot it was on the stove.
Anyway, in honor of this traumatic struggle we are in, my mom and I are naming our illustration company Burnt Fudge... if we capture the name in time... I'm sure it's a sought after branding.
I was going to wait to publish this as I have been pathetically active in the blog here today but realized that the previous blog's comment about my marriage should be explained as suprisingly enough, not everyone will understand that burnt fudge is actually wonderfully magnificent.
