I like fudge in small quantities. I tend to prefer smoked sausages and chips to overly sweet stuff, so fudge fits into my ‘just-a-small-bite-will-do’ category. There is a crumbly variety here in Poland, which, I would argue is, along with the wafer, a national confectionery. It’s called a ‘krówka’, which translates to little cow. Not a calf but a little cow. It comes individually wrapped like a lolly and you can purchase it on weight in all supermarkets and corner stores. My mother loves the stuff and she always manages to have a few pieces stored in her handbag. She’s not that into chips.
But the fudge that blew me away was the fudge my friend Magda brought to craft school one day as a birthday treat to share with everyone. The fudge was made by her seventy year old mother from an old family recipe that’s been around since before the War. You stir thirty per cent full-fat cream slowly over a stove. For hours and hours and hours. You add a bit of something or other, and hey presto delicious fudge comes out at the end. You then place it on a cool, retro enamel tray to set, cut it into chocolate-like bite size parcels and offer it to dorks like me who are suitably impressed that the fudge was home-made, did not come in a wrapper, and wasn’t overly sweet.