Grandpa's Fudge

Don't you love when recipes have a story behind them?

My grandfather was the youngest of five children,

so he was not yet born in this picture of his parents and siblings,

but I love this picture anyway.

He grew up on a farm, and said he didn't even know the Great Depression was going on

because life was sufficient on their farm.

I loved hearing his stories of life growing up.

He helped to cut the huge ice blocks from the lake in the winter and watched as the draft horses pulled them to take underground where straw insulation helped to store them so that they could later be sold in the summer.

He told me of his own family horses he grew to love that helped with the field work:

 the friendship that kind of relationship built and the sorrow one felt at losing a good horse worker.

I listened eagerly to the episodes with his brothers:

one jumping over a creek only to land on an upturned axe and how his mother put salt pork on the wound,

and the other story about when one of them licked an axe in the frigid winter and went running home with it stuck in place.

Oh, the life of boys!

He met my red-haired spirited grandmother,

a town girl,

(pictured on the right of him below).

Her vivaciousness fitted well with his quiet temperament;

he knew she was the one for him.

 He served as a Sea Bee for our country.

Patriotism ran strong in him.

My grandfather loved kids,

and, although my grandmother did not share his desire,

she gave birth to seven of them.

She was often fiesty and ornery, but I could always tell that deep down

she really loved him.

My Grandfather lived during an era where a person did not rely on anybody else

to feed and care for his children.  He felt it was a shame to rely on the government to provide for him.

He worked a full week of work and on the weekends he cut trees for extra money.

My grandmother was a nurse and worked the night shift.

 Although not a builder, my grandfather, like many in his day,

found a way to do things he wanted done.

He and his sons built this summer cabin as a get-away from their city home.

My aunt still lives in it, although it has been added onto several times since.

 My memories of my grandfather are vivid.

He loved card games; he kept his woodstove burning hot with his neatly piled firewood;

he kept a steady supply of over-sized inner tubes for us to use for swimming in the lake,

as well as fishing poles and a special place to find a great stash of worms;

his garden was large and productive and a sense of pride to him.

He always loved the babies that came into his life, bouncing them on his knee singing 

"This is the way the gentlemen ride," and "K-k-k-Katy."

"Ah-yep," was usually the way he responded,

his New England accent heavy.

And his laugh...

I loved his laugh.

He had a hearty laugh that filled the room.

My grandmother would pester him, and he would usually just laugh.

He was thrifty

and taught me the "yard-sale rule":

"Always offer half the price,

never pay full."

He took me with him and my aunt to the dump on Saturdays whenever I came to visit

so we could see what kind of treasures somebody else might be getting rid of.

He'd laugh at my aunt for the hoards of things she'd find,

but he would haul them home and help her unload them.

And yet, as a blue collar worker all of his life,

when he retired, he bought the house my grandmother had always wanted

with cash.

When he passed away, he left each of his children a generous inheritance.

He lived the American dream:

he was just an ordinary man,

in ordinary times,

working ordinary jobs

with a days full measure of strength.

His work ethic, the large calloused hands that I couldn't help but stare at,

was something to be admired.

And I admire him for it;

and yet , in all of his manliness,

my grandfather was still the type that could find his way around the kitchen,

if need be.

He used to make fudge every Christmas,

Grandpa's fudge,

and I am thankful to have it.

So I share it with you today:

My Grandfather's Fudge.

First one makes the peanut butter base.

 (I halved this recipe,

and it made a pie plate of fudge).

Peanut butter base.

Next comes the melted chocolate with butter.

Once it is cooled in the refrigerator,

it can be sliced up.

This tastes especially good on a cold winter's night

after a jaunt through the snow,

relaxing by a toasty warm woodstove

with somebody special who has a heart-warming laugh.

I miss you,

Grandpa.

Linking up to:

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Grandpa's Peanut Butter Fudge