I am in day two of my new career as a full time writer.
I’ve written something on both of the last two days.
So far, so good.
I’ve explained to my mother the difference between “unemployed” and “self-employed”.
And I autographed a copy of my book at the doctor’s office, today. This was the first time anyone ever asked for my autograph after a pelvic exam. I feel very special.
I’ve made supper, several times. Tonight, #2 son said, “Hot food, made by Mom. Words I never expected to hear together, again.”
I also started the Christmas baking. Never Fail Fudge. I swear this was what they used to call it, although they seem to have changed the recipe name to Fantasy Fudge. Possibly to avoid being sued for false advertising. Of course, when I used to do this recipe, it never used to fail. Now I tend to bomb out on two out of three batches every year.
And yet, I keep slogging stubbornly on, convinced that I the failure lies in myself and not the Kraft Company. But if the Kraft Company wouldn’t keep changing the size of their damn packages…
In the 60’s, life was simpler. Condensed milk came in one size of impossible-to-open can. The marshmallow cream jar was tall and thin and hard to spoon. And there was only one variety of Toll House Morsel. Not that I would have known, since my mother insisted on using only the finest, store-brand, brown wax, imitation chips. The first time I made this fudge, made with chocolate, I thought it tasted odd.
But now, almost all milk cans are 7 ounces too large. The marshmallow creme jar is short and squat and of dubious volume. And the recipe says I should use squares of semi-sweet baking chocolate instead of chocolate chips.
Like hell. They are lucky I’m not making this with brown candles.
Come to think of it, I have chocolate flavored candles.
I wonder if the smart-ass kid who was laughing at my cooking would notice a difference.