Oh, Fudge

“I love your fudge recipe,” Josie said to me. “May I have it?”

“Sure, I’ve got the recipe in my head,” I replied. “Let’s sit down, and you can write it on that scrap of paper. It’s fast and easy.”

“Oh, just send it to me on an email,” she responded.

I spent the next several hours feeling really bad. “What’s up with my feelings about this fudge recipe?” I mused to myself when I went on a long walk later in the day. Writing a recipe with my computer really does make sense. Why am I feeling dismissed? Suddenly, I knew: This was not about chocolate; this was about a story.

I wanted to tell Josie that this fudge recipe came from dear Grandma Mary, who moved into my life when I was 17 years old. She was my dad’s fourth of five wives, and I wanted Josie to know who Mary was to me. This was a story about Mary.

She was the first person who told me that I didn’t have to finish eating everything on my plate. I cringed at a Sunday noon fried chicken dinner, when she looked at my dad and said, “Oh, Billy, she doesn’t have to eat that strawberry shortcake if she is full.” I put my head down and waited for the explosion. This time, none came, and I quickly excused myself and hurried to the safety of my basement bedroom. I marveled at Mary speaking the simple truth to the power in that house.

Mary brought elegance and beauty to my life, too. I loved to look at her as she rode her bike, as she worked about the house, as she sanded and finished furniture, which she rubbed with real walnuts. I could barely believe the meals: So many colors. I remember feeling that she brought a hint of safety to my life: Dare I hope?

I wanted Josie to know how much I loved Mary; how I day-dreamed about her growing old with me; how I wanted her navy blue polka-dot silk shirtwaist dress; how I wanted to look like Mary in that dress.

I wanted Josie to know that Mary flew to Philadelphia when our first baby was born and helped us. In my wildest imagination, I never thought I’d ever have anyone who would do that for me.

I wanted Josie to know that Mary left us far too soon, after a wild fire of cancer took her in a few months; I wanted to tell Josie how gorgeous Mary looked in her bright fuchsia blouse and her striking silver hair on the weekend after her diagnosis. I wanted to tell Josie how two months later when I flew to be with Mary, I didn’t recognize her at first, as cancer had consumed her: her passion, her fire, her gorgeous hair. I wanted Josie to know how my friend, MJ, had arranged a first-class airplane ticket for me to come see Mary in the hospital, and how I drank too much wine on that flight on the way home, when I knew I would never see Mary again.

And, did I tell you that Mary read books? Lots of books. Every time she had a free moment. I had never seen anything like this, and I was intrigued. As a senior in high school, I read, but only what was assigned—it had never occurred to me to read for pleasure. Suddenly today, decades after Mary died, it dawned on me that I may have received, not only the fudge recipe, but also my love of books from Mary.