Homemade Chocolate Cement

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
A fudge recipe goes completely haywire!

Submitted: April 11, 2007

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Submitted: April 11, 2007

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When my boyfriend Tom and I lived in the big farmhouse in Kilmichael, Mississippi, off of Highway 413, I couldn’t boil water without burning it. When a friend gave me a recipe for homemade chocolate fudge, I should have known better than to waste my time! However, I couldn’t resist concocting what was sure to be a delicioius dessert.

I wanted to TRY, anyway, because I thoroughly believe in the medicinal use of chocolate. (Ask any pre-menopausal woman. Chocolate is the most effective weapon against P.M.S. Women called it "Premenstrual Syndrome". Men call it "Psychotic Mama Sickness." Either way, it’s BAD news.)

The recipe entailed marshmallows, sweetened condensed milk, melted chocolate, and a few other ingredients that I can’t recall. (The passage of time has a way of erasing memories.)

I had talked to my friend Debbie earlier that day, and she had told me exactly how to make it. It was supposed to be foolproof. She was right. That fudge proved to me that I was a fool!

The ingredients were supposed to be melted together in the microwave. I knew that there was something wrong when I saw smoke curling out from behind the door. Was it SUPPOSED to do that? I was following Debbie’s directions to the letter! Maybe the recipe would get better after I took the next steps.

The next steps only made the fudge WORSE.

When I was done, I stood before a smoking, one-inch thick layer of chocolate-colored ROCK.

It was time to taste my creation. I took out a butter knife to cut into the smooth, creamy, melt-in-your-mouth (???) confection. Positioning the knife for the first mouthwatering slice, I pushed down gently . . . and broke the plastic handle right off the knife!

This stuff was like cement!

Tom walked into the kitchen with his mouth watering. He wanted a piece of fudge. When he saw the black, smoking, rocklike confection sitting in the pan, he looked at me questioningly. Glancing back at the fudge, he started giggling, then laughing, then laughing so hard that tears rolled down his face and onto his shirt.

"I followed the directions," I explained sheepishly.

"I’m sure you did," he replied, when he could finally breathe again.

He knocked on the chocolate, granite-like substance and pulled back his hand to reveal a fresh scratch on his knuckles.

"I think I have a chisel in the shop," he said, trying to stifle another laugh. I blinked at him. This time, he managed to get all the way into the front room before he erupted in another outrageous fit of laughter!

Five minutes later, Tom returned to the kitchen with a putty knife, a chisel, and a hammer.

First, he tried the putty knife. It could put mud on drywall with the best of them, but it was no match for my fudge. The blade bent hopelessly into a deformed, metal mass.

"It’s a little overcooked," I explained.

A little??? There were cracks in the walls of our cement-block shop building that could have been permanently SEALED with this stuff! It was a mason worker’s DREAM! (And a dentist’s worst nightmare.)

The chisel was our last resort. Tom positioned the tool perpendicular to the cocoa-flavored concrete and forcefully pounded the handle with the hammer.

Success! A hairline crack had formed in the surface of the dessert from Hell.

"You’re making progress," I commented. "Keep going!"

After five minutes, Tom had managed to pry a one-inch-square slice from the pan. He handed it to me.

The fudge was not soft by ANY means. It was CRUNCHY like my first attempt at mashed potatoes (don’t ask), but it melted into a smooth, chocolatey hard candy. The closest analogy I could give you would be a chocolate version of Werther’s hard candies.

The pan of fudge lasted for about a week. After that, I had to buy Tom a new chisel because I had destroyed the blade.

There was a small piece leftover in the pan when most of the fudge was gone. It was JUST big enough to patch a small hole I had in the basin of my washing machine! Not even hard, lumpy, smoking mistakes go to waste around OUR house!


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