I hadn’t ever made a marble cake so I tried yesterday.
Happy with the inside of it but I tried to do something fancy with the icing and it just didn’t look fancy, so it became a spiderweb.
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.
That random word generator sure is getting random.
Fudge for me, brings to mind Australian family holidays in the eighties and early nineties. Scenic country towns of this period inevitably sold, and tourists inevitably purchased: fudge, nougat and alpaca knitwear. I guess olives are the new fudge.
That’s all I’ve got for ya. Off to Japan next week and will purchase a generic souvenir in honour of fudge.
The first thing I think of when I hear the word “fudge” is that brand of hair product from the nineties. It’s probably still around, but my knowledge of hair products – and of many other things, actually – is limited to that one decade.
The definitive Fudge product was that dye which came in a range of primary colours, easily applied to your bleached streaks, which you had, because it was the nineties. I didn’t go with this look, preferring instead to tint my long, bum-parted hair in red all over. There’s a photo of me from this era wearing a much-too-large Sebadoh t-shirt, King Gee trousers (for men) and Cons, standing in our backyard, with that red hair glinting in the sunlight, and doing no favours at all for my pimply, teenage complexion (oh, HANG ON, I still have a pimply teenage complexion).
My brother, on the hand, went the whole hog with long, bleached hair (with bum-part, naturally), which changed from one colour to the next, according to the Fudge hair dye spectrum. I remember him telling me the story of a Sydney taxi driver who told him, presumably based on nothing but his green hair and long-sleeved t-shirt with holes torn in for the thumbs, “You know, you don’t scare me”. My brother and I were annoyed at this. It wasn’t meant to look scary. Stupid know-nothing grown-ups.
I recently found myself looking disapprovingly at a strutting Vietnamese youth with a radical K-Pop style quiff, dyed that orange colour that Asian hair turns when it’s bleached, and thinking “You don’t look tough, you know”. I immediately recalled that story of the taxi driver and was deeply satisfied. While hairstyles may come and go, the world will always have rebellious youths and know-nothing adults, and, given enough time, the one person can be both.