The Great Fudge Mystery

                                               Finally Solved

                                                 By J.P. Nix

   I think it was December in 1988, or it could have been December '89, the first time I tasted the most delicious, delicate, immobilizing rich tasting fudge in my life.  Until this day nothing has crossed my palate that has tasted so sweet, so smooth, so enjoyable to my taste buds since.  It is so rich that the aroma in the house after cooking it, and the taste in my mouth after having only one piece of this masterful fudge, will linger for days afterwards.  The first night after I had ate my share of this marvelous creation, I found myself lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling, looking out my bedroom window at the full moon and twinkling stars, wanting and wishing for another piece of fudge.  But those attempts were all useless, because I had finished off the allotted share the hour before that was given to me by my girlfriend.  I tossed and turned; hardly getting any sleep that first night.   I heard the clock strike 1, then 2, then 3, and then 4 and so on through the night.  With each passing hour my palms got sweatier, my head hurt more and more, my legs were growing more and more numb as each hour passed.  There was only one thing to do: Get the recipe for the fudge!

The next day over at my girlfriend's house, I promptly inquired about the recipe for the fudge.

"Oh I'm sorry," she laughed.  "It's a family recipe."

"Yeah, but," I tried convincing her.  "We are dating."

"I'm sorry," she laughed again.  "The only person that will ever gets the recipe will be my Son.

There was silence as my mind contemplated on how to get my hands on that recipe.  I must have looked as if I was concentrating too hard on this scheming plot when she broke the silence.

"There's plenty left," she offered.  "I only make it once a year at Christmas, so I always make plenty."

"Once a year!  Indeed!  This masterful fudge is only made once a year!  What gives?" I thought all this to myself, not breathing a word.  "I wonder why she only makes it once a year?  Could it be that the ingredients to make it are only available at Christmas time?  Or maybe there's a natural herb or spice that she gets from the Earth that only ripens one month out of the twelve?  Or maybe, just maybe the Earth and Moon are in perfect alignment with each other and the Moon has to be full in December when she makes it? And that there's some unearthly power involved in making this fudge? It could be anything?  I'd have to wait until next Christmas, and make sure I'm around when she makes it!"

So the next Christmas came, we were still dating, but she made the fudge when I wasn't around to discover this unique culinary talented that she obviously wanted to keep a secret.  Why did she want to keep it so concealed?  What was so magical about it?  Why would it only be passed down from generation to generation and no other souls could possess this truly fantastic recipe.  The thought of not having it drove me mad! But as the season changed, my desire to have this delight subsided. But the first of every December for years to come, my mouth would begin to water for this wonderment of fudge.  By the next Christmas we were living together, given me more of an opportunity to get my hands on the recipe.       

 Whenever alone in the house, time would find me searching high and low for a piece of paper, frantically reading all the cookbooks in the house for that recipe.  I even went through old magazines, books, and boxes; every where I could think of that could be used as a hiding place.  She only makes it once a year, she surely couldn't remember it word for word, and it must be written down somewhere.  But my attempts to find it failed me.  And yet another holiday season came without discovering its whereabouts. 

The next season I hid tape recorders in the kitchen whenever I wasn't at home, but that generated no results.  And yet when I returned from work, shopping or whatever took me away from my house, I would return to find the King of all fudge made.

One holiday season, I got bold and brave and asked her mother for it.  Her reply was the same as the daughter's, "No, it's a family recipe.  Like the sisters on the Waltons.  We can't give the recipe out to no one but family."

The first Christmas after we were married, I made my claim to the recipe.  However I was denied with the same line, "Yes your Family, but your still not blood.  The only person that will get it, will be my Son."

I finally gave up this Christmas, and told myself if I couldn't have the recipe, I didn't want to eat any of it nor have any of it made.  But my wife and I were shopping when she asked me if I wanted her to make the fudge this year. 

"No," I replied.  "You don't have to."

"Ah," she said.  "I know you want me to make it."

"Well," I conceded.  "Maybe a small batch."

On the grocery store shelf we were standing in front of held two different sizes of this jar called Marshmallow Supreme; a large national brand, and a smaller version store brand. 

"I don't want to buy this big jar for a small batch," she said."

"Well get the store brand," I offered.  "It's the same thing."

"Yeah," she agreed.  "But the recipe is not on the back of that jar."

On the back of this jar in bold print, it read: Fantasy Fudge Recipe

Eleven years she kept this secret, I wonder what else she hasn't told me?  But that's another story for another time.

                      The End