Fudge

AUNT TINA'S FUDGE RECIPE -- (covered with plastic, of course!)
My husband’s Aunt Tina first sent us a box of her fudge in 1985. She and her husband were childless, but she mothered many of us who were in her life. That fudge was a Christmas gift that knocked our socks off....five pounds of 1/2 nut, 1/2 plain confection for my husband and me to devour. I remember cutting pieces, arranging them on plates, then creatively packaging them to share the bounty with friends. Fudge is best eaten fresh. Year after year came Aunt Tina’s handiwork; our appreciation seemed to grow exponentially.
As she aged, I worried about the strain the fudge production put on her. She would make fifty pounds each year. The pans were heavy and it was tiring to stir the sugar and evaporated milk down from a full, roiling boil. Aunt Tina confided in me that she had started making the fudge in lots, starting just after Thanksgiving. It was easier to manage cooking, packaging and shipping her gifts this way. Gingerly, I asked for her recipe. I proposed that I make the fudge for our growing family and help cut down her work. She wouldn’t hear of it. Another year, and another and I kept pleading with her. “No,” she said. Then the year came that she said, “I’m putting Crume (her husband) to work. He’s my assistant.”
I didn’t dare argue that I could make our batch. The Christmas came that she called me. “I’m late making the fudge this year; I had a quadruple bi-pass and....”
I interrupted her, “Aunt Tina, you are crazy. Please, let me make our fudge.”
“No,” she said, “But do you mind if I just send one pound of it this year?”
Two years later, Aunt Tina called me with a surprise.
“Dear, I have put the recipe for the fudge in the mail to you. But I wanted to explain a few things....” Whereby she launched into details about what a roiling bowl looks like. And explained that she opens all of the ingredients and measures them into separate bowls. Premeasured ingredients allow for ready addition to the mix according to Aunt Tina. She warned me to cover the fudge before it hardened or I would have a crusty top layer on the fudge. No-one wants that.
So began the hand-off. I was honored that she shared the recipe me. She said I was the only one that showed such an interest. Also, because she knew I wrote food articles for the local newspaper, she started sending me recipes she liked or used often Just because. I think it pleased Aunt Tina to know that, though she didn’t have children of her own, she could pass on recipes that were part of her life story.
This year, for the first time in thirty-five years, we received a Christmas card in Crume’s handwriting. My heart gave a little lurch, was Aunt Tina gone? No, but Aunt Tina would not be making fudge again; dementia has claimed her memory. So, this year, more than any other, I felt compelled to make Aunt Tina’s fudge. And yes, I remembered to cover it with plastic as soon it set up. Crusty fudge would never have passed Aunt Tina’s exacting standards. We couldn’t have that.

Indignation

Before

After


The word “indignation” sounds old-fashioned. It is burdened with disappointment, expectation and anger. I recognized the feeling of indignation just this morning.

Near the bottom of my driveway is an old tree, half-broken, but clinging to life. It is nestled between the lazy meandering waterway called West Brook and Westbrook Road. A fortuitous split of the tree left a flat, table-like surface at about 45 inches off the ground. Over time, the surface of this “table” has been overgrown by moss. This small altar-like artifice undergoes mysterious seasonal transformations. At the beginning of each equinox, an offering is placed by unknown hands. Fall might bring a smattering of pumpkins and gourds, Spring offers small flowers dug into the moss, often pansies. Summer the moss does all the work as it turns lustrous and green. Winter, there might be a few small pebbles and stones, piled artistically. It always makes me think of the tree that housed treasures in “To Kill a Mockingbird.” In this case, it seems like little fairies come out and do the work while the rest of the world sleeps.

On a recent walk, I noticed that squirrels had nibbled into one pumpkin, knocked down another and chewed a gourd down to its neck. It was at that moment I hatched my plan. I would do the seasonal display myself this time! It was with tremendous pleasure
that I turned over various ideas. What intruded upon my thoughts was exactly the same thing that has intruded upon my thoughts on every walk I have taken since September.
There is a small bridge that passes over West Brook. At the corner of the bridge, a bag of garbage had fallen or been thrown from a vehicle. The offending bottles, cans, and detritus had sat untouched for weeks and weeks and weeks. When the town crews were mowing there, I thought they might have removed the trash. No, it just sat. Through flood and blizzard and gale force winds, the offending items remained. It occurred to me that if I was going to spruce up the special place, I would have to do something about this careless mess someone left behind.

I set out on my walk with determination the next morning. I had a white Hefty kitchen trash bag, gloves and a fistful of colorful Christmas balls that I threaded with pipe cleaners. My first stop was at the special tree. I hung ornaments and made a spray of evergreens to decorate the tree with a festive, non-denominational kind of feel. From there, I headed to the bridge to pick up and bag the garbage. I filled 3/4 of a bag. I left the bag, and continued on my walk, seeking out other garbage I could remove to beautify the scenery along a road I love so much. On the return, I picked up the sac, dumped in the additional trash, then headed on home. I stopped once again to admire my handiwork at the tree, then proceeded on home.

I dropped the plastic trash bag along with the latex gloves into a big, green garbage bin before going inside to wash my hands. I was looking forward to seeing my handiwork on the next trip down the driveway.

This morning, I got suited up for my walk in the cold and the dark. Snowpants, hat, gloves, scarf and winter kicks. I felt a small frisson of satisfaction when I saw the incongruent silver, gold and red ornaments hanging from the fallen tree at the bottom of my driveway. I looked forward to - finally - passing over West Brook Bridge without seeing garbage strewn on one side of it. But wait! What’s this??? I did a literal double-take when I saw a scattering of new empties at the exact same site I cleaned just 24 hours earlier.
Enter indignation.
Merriam-Webster’s definition of INDIGNATION matches my own: anger aroused by something unjust, unworthy, or mean.
I felt indignation and disbelief that there was one spot that someone appears free to use as a repository for their trash. I am angry that I went to the trouble to gather and remove the last load and there it was, back again. As I marched home, propelled by my righteous indignation, I paused a moment in front of the altar of the seasonal delights. I confess that my steam of anger lost its head as I looked at a few ornaments and a spray of evergreens. As I headed up the long driveway that leads to my house, I found myself considering whether I should swing by with my car to pick up the offending rubbish or bring along another Hefty kitchen trash bag on my walk tomorrow morning.