On Friday, we had a little party at work in which everyone was assigned to bring a treat to share. I love Christmastime because I feel like it’s the only time of the year I’m allowed to make fudge. I realized I probably shouldn’t make a whole pan for myself, because then I would eat a whole pan myself, and that could have some bitter, bitter consequences. Therefore, what better excuse than to make it than for a work party.
And so, I made some fudge and as I was pouring it into the pan, I realized the recipe made more than I thought, so I poured the rest in a smaller bread loaf pan. I set the larger pan on the counter, and the smaller pan on the stove to cool. I licked the spoon in anticipation and dreamed about how happy I was going to be in about 20 minutes. Let me tell you, it was some good lookin’ fudge.
Was.
Man, I hate that word.
I went into the living room as I waited for the fudge to cool. In the meantime, my roommate came into the kitchen and decided she wanted some dinner. She put a pot of water on the stove, turned on the burner, and went back into the bedroom as she waited for it to boil.
Within a few minutes, I sniffed the air and thought, ‘Hmm, I wonder what she’s making. It smells a little funny.’ Then I went back to what I was doing.
A little while after that, I looked up and thought, ‘Hmm, I wonder what she’s burning. It doesn’t smell so good.’ I stood up to go inspect the source of the stench, and as I walked into the kitchen, my heart dropped.
There on the stove was my fudge, sitting atop a red hot coil, smoking and sizzling. “Oh no! My fudge!” I peered down at the bubbling, black sludge and felt my heart break a little bit. I picked up the pan, switched off the burner as I looked at the pot of non-boiling water on the back burner, and set the now ruined fudge on the other side of the stove.
I stood there, sadly whimpering at that mess of goo, and feeling a little sorry for myself, when suddenly like a time-bomb that just hit zero, my fudge exploded.
I screamed as shattered glass shot through the kitchen, hot fudge spewed everywhere, and what was left dripped through the coils of the stove.
My roommates and boyfriend ran into the kitchen to find me shaking, covered in goo, and surrounded by tiny bits of glass as I deliriously giggled about the fact that I could have just been killed by an exploding, sugar-laden dessert. That would have been a Darwin Award shoo-in for sure.
As we began to clean up the mess, we found glass shards on both sides of the kitchen, and even around the corner in the living room. Fudge somehow squeezed its way into the oven, and splattered all over the floor.
And yet, through the mess, I remembered the other pan of fudge sitting on the counter next to the stove. I held my breath as I closely inspected it, fully expecting to find it sprinkled with bits of glass. To my amazement and delight, I found it completely untouched. My fudge was saved.
A Christmas miracle indeed.
