In September 1969, Dick and I
began our year in the wilderness
on the edge of the BWCWA
in the Superior National Forest.
Our small cabin had neither
road access nor amenities. This
is a reprint of one of many stories
about our lives during that
special year.
When a craving for chocolate struck on Tucker Lake, the nearest store was two portages and 30 miles away, so running to town for a Snickers bar was out of the question. Instead I hauled out the aluminum pot, a bag of sugar and started a batch of old fashioned, tricky to make, but oh-so-wonderful fudge. All I needed was sugar, cocoa, vanilla, canned milk and patience.
Dick grew up in a fudgemaking family and had introduced me to the tradition in our early years of marriage. He had tried to tutor me in the art of fudge making, but I never had enough patience to learn the process until that year in the woods. The long winter nights, combined with serious chocolate cravings, brought out a hidden streak of serenity I didn’t know I had. Over the year, I gradually became an expert fudge maker.
Without ringing telephones or blaring television programs, I was able to enjoy the entire process in a Yogameditative manner. That sounds a little dramatic; to say it another way, I had nothing better to do than make fudge on winter nights.
The candy craving would hit, so Dick and I would melt sugar, water, syrup and chocolate and simmer the bubbling mass until it reached soft boil stage. I bought a candy thermometer, but Dick’s mother had schooled him in the old fashioned testing method—which is to drop a glob into cold water. If it becomes a soft but malleable ball, the fudge has cooked to the correct temperature.
At first, I had no patience with this technique and screwed it up every time, but eventually, I developed a feel for just the right texture as the uncooked fudge rolled between my fingers. This was accompanied by small twinge of pride when I finally recognized the “soft ball” stage described in the written recipe. Ah, now I understood what the words meant.
The next step in fudge making was the most time consuming and demanded much patience. The sugarsyrup chocolate mixture had to cool gradually before butter and vanilla were added.
This part seemed endlessly long. I would place the pan outside on the frigid deck. I’d wash the dishes, read a book and wait for the stuff to cool. Lots of testing took place as I poked a finger into the sugary chocolate mass, checking its readiness again and again until finally, the stuff was cool.
Now the final stage commenced— beating with a wooden spoon. Dick’s strong arms would be called into action as we took turns mixing and mixing the shiny brown mass. Minutes passed as our arms tired, or at least, mine did. By the end of the winter, my fudge-beating arm had developed considerable muscles.
Finally…finally, the chocolate mass turned dull which indicated readiness, and quickly we plopped it into a greased pan. Now the true test came.
Was the fudge creamy with a melt in-your-mouth consistency? If so, we had done it right, and it was a heavenly treat.
Did it congeal into a hard mass or morph into a soft blob? If so, we hadn’t done it right, and it was still wonderfully delicious.
That’s the best thing I learned about fudge. It tastes great—even if you screw up the recipe.
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