Elizabeth Naranjo's "Good Enough" Fudge
I ceremoniously tied an apron on my daughter and propped her next to the chocolate chips. Abigail stirred in the marshmallow crème and licked the spoon while I finished mixing (how did my mother make this look so effortless?). I poured the thick silky chocolate into a pan, and we bundled up in the family room to watch The Polar Express while the fudge cooled.
By the end of the movie, the fudge still hadn't set. Instead of soft velvety blocks, I had a pan of grainy mush.
"What the hell happened?" I asked my husband. "No one screws up fudge."
He peered into the pan. "That's supposed to be fudge?"
"Never mind," I snapped. "I guess we can't take it to Flagstaff."
"No, let's take it," he said, his mouth working against a smile. "We can stick the pan in the snow, maybe it'll set."
"That's very funny. You're such a funny guy." I grabbed the pan and a couple of spoons and headed back to the family room, where The Polar Express was restarting. I dimmed the lights, snuggled up with my little girl, and handed her a spoon. This was good enough for me.