Fudge

 

     My greatest faux pas in Nauvoo was not buying my fiancée fudge.  The Fudge Factory is an Institution!  Before he joined us in Nauvoo, Jeff had an ecclesiastical leader command him to buy fudge therefrom.  The Fudge Factory is serious business.

      It’s located right next to Brother Neff’s bookstore and no doubt they are a wonderful compliment—the Old House satisfies the mind and the Fudge Factory satisfies the body and soul.  When the temple is completed on the other side of Mulholland Street, there will be nothing missing from the equation for everlasting happiness unavailable within fifty feet of this culinary paradise.  There’s a higher power at work here.

      The first time I entered the Fudge Factory, it was in company of its biggest fan and her entourage.  Emilee was a daily recipient of the Fudge Factory’s blessings, so she made a natural guide.  Behind the counter was a fellow named Trevor, who didn’t hardly look deacon age, but I inquired (very politely I assure you), and he was seventeen.  He was very gracious and made a fine host.  His relaxed attitude no doubt kept the windows from imploding into Emilee’s overwhelming enthusiasm.

      If you’ve never met Emilee, then you’ve never met anyone like her, because there is no one like her.  She is an alarmingly buoyant personality.  The best way I can think to describe her is as the LDS Bacchus, which may seem like a horrible oxymoron, but how else to describe her?  She seems to be Living Life Unrestrained, personified as a tall, blonde girl spouting pre-Dust Bowl expressions of delight and bearing candy to the downtrodden student masses.  “Land’s sakes!” she’ll exclaim, then hand you M&M’s or (if your situation is dire enough to require her reminding you there’s still corn to pick), maybe even a slice of fudge. That’s Emilee.  So to sum up, imagine Bacchus as tall, blonde and female, giving away chocolate instead of wine and telling all the cute, little woodland creatures, “Well, put a rose on your nose!” and you’ll have a reasonable idea of my guide during my first bewildering adventure to the Fudge Factory.

      One of the greatest attributes of the Fudge Factory is its habit of giving away free fudge.  That’s right, free fudge.  It’s difficult for an observer such as myself to determine whether this is best compared to a drug dealer handing out free speed on a street corner, or the missionaries handing out free Joseph Smith pamphlets on the opposite corner.  Who’s to say?  Whatever the metaphor, we took advantage of the samples.

      Emilee wheeled around the store, recklessly recommending one caloric concoction after another.  It’s easy enough to start with Milk Chocolate, Dark Chocolate and Chocolate with Nuts, and even differentiating between Milk Chocolate with Pecans and Semi-Sweet with Walnuts and Pistachios is not too much of a strain, but beyond that it gets tricky.  One of my dearest held paradigms is that fudge varies in color only within the confines of brown.  The Fudge Factory holds no such preconceptions.  Did you know fudge comes in pink, white and even green?  So I tried Vanilla Fudge, Vanilla Raspberry Fudge and Raspberry Vanilla Fudge.  I never did have any green fudge.  There is a limit to how many horizons can be crossed one day.  Having Emilee there with me was not merely helpful; it was absolutely necessary.  I waddled out of the store fattened on samples, but I left the purchasing to the true fudge gourmets.

      Those accepted into the JSA with higher IQs than myself were quick to realize that what the loved ones at home really wanted was fudge.  So while I was rooting through the postcard bin at the antique store, everyone else was mailing boxes of luscious, mouth-watering fudge.  “Mm, fudge,” their loved ones undoubtedly exclaimed upon receipt.  But I, the lucky but not too insightful kid, who had somehow become engaged, did not possess this primal insight into human response.  I didn’t realize that it wasn’t a little block of candy I was paying five bucks for, but a glimpse into the eternities and a sense of bless and well being.  That is what the Fudge Factory is all about.  I never did catch onto this.

      Of course, my love was able to partake of a lesser kind of bliss (ignorance) until she found out about the Fudge Factory, which she unavoidably did.

      Let me tell you a little bit about the history of Lynsey and Fudge before we go on.  Lynsey is the connoisseur of fudge.  It has been years since any other Steed or Brasfield has deigned to lift a wooden spoon in the art of fudge manufactory, for Lynsey’s fudge making superiority is recognized at home and abroad.  Ask any of her old roommates—they’ll all agree: Lynsey is the ultimate queen of fudge.¹

      Christmas ’99 was the season we did the meet-the-family-thing; the big event at my parents’ house was the tasting of Mother’s fudge.  The silence was deep and long until Lynsey gave a slow, appreciative nod.  The fudge would do.  We all expelled a collective sigh of Jepson relief.  Two families could be joined.

      I don’t mean to make Lynsey out as some sort of militant fudge nazi, but the fact is, when it comes to matters of fudge, Lynsey is the Bay Area’s darling—if not the darling of this entire dispensation.  Lynsey reigns supreme; her prowess is unmatched.

      Being, as I am, in respectful awe of Lynsey’s position of Fudge Darling, surely I would know to send her a nice, large box of a large variety of large squares of Fudge Factory fudge—but no, I just don’t possess the ability to make such a common sensical leap.  I am, you might say, a genuine dunderhead.  And so I neglected my fiancée by failing to send her fudge.  But as I said, she was blissfully unaware of my neglect, and she continued to enjoy postcards of 1960s sunsets under the Golden Gate rather than dreaming of fudge that would never come.  It makes me tear up now, to think of such cruel denial.

      She never did find out about the severity of my neglect until a couple of weeks after my return from Nauvoo.  Jayme kindly volunteered her parents’ house for a little pizza-centered get-together where I could introduce my love to the troops.  The evening was full of pepperoni and root beer, so it’s hard to say now whether what I remember really happened or was a byproduct of the convoluted dreams the following night, but Emilee was surely there.  I can’t be certain that she was there in person, but her influence was felt.  The Emilee Fudge Legend had reached a new height.  The stories were endless:  Emilee had already taken her family back to Nauvoo to sample the fudge.  Emilee is planning monthly pilgrimages to keep up with Nauvoo’s fudge developments.  Emilee’s selling a kidney to start a Fudge Factory franchise.  Emilee this the fudge.  Emilee that the fudge.  All I can say for sure is that she’s been back for fudge at least once already, and that when we left Nauvoo in April, the Fudge Factory people were so sorry to see Emilee go that they showered her with gifts.  That much is true.

      Lynsey, being a very bright woman, picked up on all this fudge talk.  “What—fudge?” she said.  (Not coincidentally, it was that very night I began the repentance process.)  Since I was no longer in Nauvoo, I couldn’t properly manage the “Restitution” part of repentance, but I’ve done the best I can, and Lynsey has graciously forgiven me.  But the long shadow of sin refuses to leave me alone.  The other day, Lynsey and I ran into my fellow Nauvoo expatriates, Jeff and Jared.  Jeff was full of stories about Emilee’s latest Nauvoo adventure, replete with obnoxiously appetizing details.  He spoke with the loving tenderness only a reminiscent lover of fudge can produce as he exclaimed, “Oh, the Mint Fudge Peanut Butter Strawberry!  Oh, the slender toothpicks with which free samples were served!  Oh, the marble slab!”

      “Marble slab?” 

      I tried to explain through Jeff’s invasive euphoria that the Fudge Factory makes their wares on an enormous marble slab, pushing, turning and mixing the fudge with a gigantic wooden spoon-like device before they pop it into their large, Hansel and Gretel sized oven.  Lynsey was impressed by this new information, and as I apologized anew, Jeff shamelessly droned on and on and on about the Fudge Factory.  “Oh, the chocolate covered pretzels!  Oh, the easy street access . . . !”

      “I’m sorry,” I said again, “I really should have sent some.  I just didn’t think.  It really was good.”

      “It’s made on marble,” Lynsey said, “how could it not be?”

      The queen had spoken.

 

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Thanks for revisiting Nauvoo with me. I would love to hear your thoughts.