Yesterday (aka Thanksgiving) I joined a friend and his family for Thanksgiving dinner. They’re a lovely close-knit group with lots of banter and friendly teasing peppering the conversation. Also, very fine cooks! I contributed a bottle of wine to the festivities, and, fittingly, one of my family’s traditional holiday treats, fudge.
But not just any old fudge. THIS fudge is the recipe handed down from Dad. He taught me how to make it in 1966, a time when parents didn’t think twice about having a young child work at a hot stove, overseeing a pan of boiling syrup. Ah, those were the days. . .
I don’t get it. What’s wrong with kids cooking?
That’s the spirit, 9!
One of my few dietary indulgences.
Even the best of us fall from time to time, Lily.
The following is the reboot of a blog first published in December 2015. Here’s to Dad, and the Family Fudge!
Dad, doing what he loved best. Sailing, c. 1960s.
At this time of year I think about Dad, even more than I do at other times of year, which is a lot.
Dad was born approximately 40 miles north of my present home in Walla Walla, WA. On December 24, 1924, in the small town of Starbuck, he and his twin, Donald, were born 3 months premature. Donald didn’t make it, but Glenn Dean Abraham, Jr., did, warmed in the improvised incubator of the kitchen oven.
He also survived World War II after twenty-some missions in a B-17. Dad was a waist gunner and radio operator. His plane was shot down in April, 1945. One of four surviving crew members, he was taken prisoner by the Germans. He escaped once, was recaptured and escaped again, both times with the help of the French Resistance. After this stint he returned to Port Townsend, WA (his home since he was 3 years old) and married his high school sweetheart, Marjorie Jean Sullivan.
Dad with B-17 crew (back row, second from the left).
Like a lot of WW II vets, Dad took advantage of the GI bill and finished a bachelor’s degree in constitutional law at Seattle University, then his Juris Doctorate at the University of Washington. He passed the bar exam. After teaching business law at WSU (then Washington State College) for 5 years he and Mom returned to Port Townsend where he opened a law practice.
Lawyer. A word that, in many minds, translates to something bad. Dad used to say all those jokes about lawyers were actually true stories, except for two of them (he never said which two). Some of his clients have shared how he nudged them away from making bad decisions (divorce, suing someone, etc.) or, if they were already in trouble, reminded them that they had the choice to change for the better; Port Townsend’s answer to Atticus Finch before Go Set a Watchman came to light.
As a father, he was reluctant to give praise. “The girls know I’m proud of them unless I tell them I’m not.” He and Mom instilled in us the expectation of finishing college and learning how to support ourselves. But Dad wasn’t always strict and practical. Exhibit A: he taught me how to make fudge.
Remember when the TV series “Batman” was new? Dad loved that show, and it was on “Batman” night that I first remember him making fudge.
In a heavy saucepan, combine 2 cups granulated sugar, 3 ounces unsweetened chocolate and 7/8 cup milk. Over medium high heat, bring to a boil (stir sparingly, if at all) and cook to “soft ball” stage. Remove pan from heat, add 1 teaspoon vanilla and 2 tablespoons butter or margarine. With a hand-held electric mixer (we didn’t have one at first so we took turns beating it with a spoon), beat the fudge until it changes from a syrup consistency to a more solid state and “starts to lose its sheen.” Pour onto a greased plate and let it set until firm enough to cut into squares. Meantime, debate over who gets to lick the beaters, the spoon and the pan.
Five ingredients and easy enough to teach to an interested kid. I still hear Dad’s guidance in my head from the moment I measure the sugar to the time the fudge is ready to cut. “Your mother will like that batch,” he’d snort if it came out on the soft side (a bit under cooked and/or under beaten). Dad preferred his fudge dry and crumbly, who knows why. I’d make him a special batch at Christmas because no one else liked it that way. For thirty-one years Dad’s been gone, but the family fudge lives on.
Wishing you a pleasant run-up to whatever winter holiday(s) you celebrate, and a seasonal return to traditions that warm your heart.
For me it is Grandma Kate Hartford’s peanut fudge. There’s a very fine line between just right and too hard and crumby.
Coaxing the candy to the right temperature is definitely as much an art as it is a science. Best wishes for peanut fudge that is Just Right, Linnea!
What a sweet piece of nostalgia, dear! I’m going to have to give that recipe a try! For me, the annual tradition is almond roca, a 4-ingredient recipe, and something I taught myself to master after my sister gave me a tiny little Christmas treat cookbook one year (many moons ago). If she doesn’t get any for her December birthday, she puts me in the dog house, lol! Happy official beginning of the Holiday Season, friend!
Better get going on that Almond Roca, Erin! Best wishes for launching the winter festivities with a happy blast.