Foodie Friday: Million Dollar Fudge

It is the last Foodie Friday before Christmas, and I thought I would share my family's recipe for Million-Dollar Fudge. If I am being transparent, I haven't made fudge for years. The problem with fudge is that I eat it, like all of it. Eating fudge is how I went from just over 100 lbs. to way over 100 lbs. Well, that and a few medical issues/medications, but the fudge definitely helped the number on that scale climb. So, I don't make fudge anymore. It's too much of a temptation.

When I began teaching at Abraxas in Forest County, PA, it was my first time living alone. I was young, overwhelmed with my new job and living situation, and often exhausted. I began taking medicine to control my colitis and reduce the inflammation in my body. Steroids make you hungry, and long-term steroid use packs on the pounds quickly. Combine that with not knowing how to cook, not really caring to cook for one, and not wanting to extend the energy to cook proper meals; you have a recipe for a fat-ass disaster.

On Sunday evenings, I would return to my lonely little cottage in the middle of the Alleghany National Forest, and out of boredom, I would make a pan of fudge. I got really good at making fudge. It was my first attempt at candy-making, and I took it seriously. I would put the fudge in a special container, an old tin with a nostalgic winter farm scene. That container would go into the refrigerator on Sunday night, and the fudge would be my weekly food source.

I remember visiting home on a weekend several months into my first teaching job. After months of eating fudge and being on low-dose steroids, the effects were beginning to show. I equivocate it to the freshman fifteen; it was just a few years later. I was in my flannel pajamas, going upstairs ahead of my mom. My mom announced with a cackling laugh, "Weiner, your ass looks as wide as an ax handle! You better cut back on the fudge and watch your weight!" Rich, coming from a woman who is supposedly self-conscious of her weight and was overly sensitive to my dad's comments about her weight. As was often the case in our family dynamic, when a weakness was bared, it was used to one's advantage. This comment was just the first of many hurtful comments about my appearance that went on for years.

So, that was the end of my fudge-making. Despite cutting out the sweets, eating better, exercising, and eventually trying every diet medication on the market, the damage was done. The steroids were necessary to keep things in check, and the weight stayed on. However, I remember how delicious and creamy the fudge tasted. To this day, it remains a fond memory, although tainted with negativity.

My grandmother's recipe for Million-Dollar Fudge is one of the best I have ever tasted. It's rich, creamy, and delicious. When I think of the perfect fudge recipe, I think of my Gram's Million Dollar Fudge. Although I refuse to make it, trust me, dear reader, it is a wonderful holiday treat. A bit of advice from twenty-something me: don't make it a food staple. Insert a wink. Fudge is not part of the food pyramid. Sigh.

Million Dollar Fudge

4 1/2 Cups Granulated Sugar

1 Can Carnation Evaporated Milk

1/4 Cup Butter

2 16 oz. packages Nestle Toll House Semi-Sweet Chocolate Chips

1 Pint Marshmallow Creme

1 tsp. Vanilla Extract

1 Cup Nuts (Optional) - I never add nuts

Boil the sugar, milk, and butter over low heat for eight minutes. Remove from the stove. Add the chocolate chips, marshmallow creme, and vanilla extract. Beat by hand using a sturdy spatula until all is melted and combined. Pour the mixture onto a buttered cookie sheet, spread evenly, and allow to cool completely. Once cooled, cut into bite-size pieces, store in an airtight container, and store in the refrigerator if eaten within a week. Freeze if not being used right away. This recipe makes 5 lbs.

On this last Friday before Christmas, stay safe, be smart, eat delicious treats in moderation, enjoy the holiday, use gentle words when speaking to others, and treat others respectfully. Making someone feel bad to make yourself feel good is not a suitable coping mechanism. Also, keep washing your hands.

How Are There Only Six Days Until Christmas?

Not my front door, some rando front door that is far more festive than my front door.

How are there only six days until Christmas? The holiday that is the center of our fiscal year, and what we center our work year around, sneaks up on me every time. With only six days to go until the grand finale, I don't have my artificial tree up, let alone decorated. Not a light is in the window, not a wreath on the door, not a present is wrapped. I have the stockings hung, but they look out of place and pathetic without any other decorations. The large Santa picture I hang over the mantel each year is still in the attic. Oh, and at this point, forget about dragging out the twenty or so pieces of the Christmas village. Our home is definitely not festive.

I had thought I had completed all my Christmas shopping the weekend after Thanksgiving, so I thought I was ahead of the game until I realized a few days ago that I had not purchased a single "From Santa" gift for The Bean. I know she's almost sixteen and hasn't believed in Santa for years. However, we have a tradition in our house. For each person, I follow the rule of thumb: something you want, something you need, something to wear, something to read. For The Bean, I do Santa gifts as well. There is special paper for her Santa gifts, and they don't go under the tree until after she falls asleep on Christmas Eve. It's my thing. I enjoy playing Santa.

This year, she might receive envelopes with pictures of her Santa gifts. I am the epitome of a bad Santa this year. I don't know how this happened. I honestly felt like I had it all under control. It seems each year, my grasp on reality becomes a bit looser. I was driving through town and saw an electric billboard with the countdown to Christmas and was like, "WHAAAAAAT? Eight days until Christmas!"

This weekend will be a mad rush to get everything done. This includes hanging a wreath on the door, decorating the tree and the mantel, and wrapping gifts. The Bibbed Wonder and I must drive an hour or so to pick up our steaks for our Christmas Eve dinner. I have two doctor's appointments in Pittsburgh that must be attended, and The Bean has begun musical practice for the school musical. I'm not sure how I will get it all done.

I am trying to remember that all the decorations, trimmings, and fuss over the perfect holiday are not really what makes it special. It's the time together, celebrating our savior and appreciating those we love. However, if I don't decorate this tree, my child will never forgive me. On Friday night, there will be no plans other than decorating the tree, watching The Grinch, and sleeping under the tree. All three things have to happen, or I won't forgive myself. Sigh.

Rather than sit here any longer, blathering on about my unpreparedness, I need to take action. On this chilly December 19th, there are only six days until Christmas; stay safe, be smart, don't let the days get away from you, try not to stress, and keep washing your hands.

RIP Jordan Short & Mr. Frizzlebottoms

Poor Mr. Frizzlebottoms

Well, dear reader, the chicken drama continues here on the farm. I have lost two of my favorite chickens in my little backyard flock. On Monday, that bothersome hawk was caught in the act of killing my adorable frizzle rooster, Mr. Frizzlebottoms. Of course, the hawk targeted the most beautiful chicken in the flock. Not that I wish death upon any of my chickens, but why could it not have targeted one of the crazy-ass white ones that drive me to insanity with their refusal to roost in the coop and lay eggs willy-nilly about the place?

Instead, it tore my little fat-bottomed buddy to shreds before my eyes. This hawk is no dummy. It A) discovered an easy meal source, B) knows it is protected and can't be shot, C) disappears when I run outside to protect my flock. I hate this bird. I don't usually hate anything, but I hate this bird. I know, I know, it's only following its instincts, and everything needs to eat. However, I have 150 acres filled with snakes, mice, voles, moles, rabbits, and other rodents it could hunt. Good grief, Buster chases field mice every morning around the hay field we walk. I love my big red buddy, but he's not exactly a killing machine or a professionally trained hunter. I feel that if Bus can catch a field mouse, surely a bird that is the equivalent of a deadly sniper can find a meal that is not my pet chickens. Sigh.

I had big plans for Mr. Frizzlebottoms. He was going to be the source of my joy, happiness, and adoration for all the little frizzle babies he was going to provide. I was going to save eggs, buy an incubator, or have my friend Jenna incubate his fuzzy, little, frizzled, fertilized eggs. I was going to have the most adorable, docile flock in the county, maybe even the world. Now, my little dreams of an adorable frizzle takeover are crushed...like Mr. Frizzlebottoms little neck. Sigh.I really hate that hawk.

Jordan Short is the most brilliant chicken I have ever met.

To add insult to injury, my favorite hen, Jordan Short, died. I am blaming the hawk for her death as well. Although I did not see her ripped apart before my very eyes, I found her dead under the livestock trailer. My theory is that the hawk swooped down, broke her little neck, and in a last-ditch effort to survive, she dove under the trailer to escape being hawk food. Eric said that is not a reasonable scenario at all. He said, more than likely, Jordan Short died of old age. I am going with my outlandish theory, which was the hawk. That hawk sucks. I hate it.

The hawk is young. I don't know how long a hawk lives, but I am guessing long enough to decimate my backyard flock. Between hawk attacks and what I now know is Marek's disease killing my chickens, I will not have any chickens left. My young chickens are dying from a virus common in backyard flocks, Marek's disease. This is entirely preventable if the chicks are vaccinated. I thought I had purchased vaccinated chicks in the spring. Apparently, I am wrong. The disease seems to have run its course, and none of my younger chickens have died recently. Thank goodness. However, now I have a professional killer targeting my flock and killing my most beloved little fuzzies.

I am trying to convince The Bibbed Wonder I need a covered enclosure for my chickens' safety. He is not open to my ideas. Once the springhouse project is done and the goat shed is built in the pasture across the driveway, I will ask for a new chicken coop complete with a covered enclosure. I have some time to think it through and plan it well. I will add this to my "Farm Overhaul List." The Bibbed Wonder does not like my proclivity for list-making and design. Don't worry; I have plenty of time to wear him down and get my way. He eventually comes around to my way of thinking. It just takes a lot of lobbying and effort. Perhaps I will use my most powerful weapon: tears. He hates it when I cry. I know it's a dirty move, but it might be the only way to save my chickens. The plotting continues.

On this chilly December day, stay safe, be smart, protect what is yours even if you must resort to dirty methods like crying, and keep washing your hands.