![]() ![]() We were a middle class family living in the middle of the city. Didi had a microwave, albeit not a convection. She wanted to make her own cheese sandwich in thirty seconds flat, just like her friend Didi D’Amico could do. She had had enough of her little sisters, enough of sharing precious things, enough of wondering where her favourite socks had gone. This microwave and its accompanying book was her ticket to independence. My older sister Sally pressed it to her chest. In the bottom of the box was the Panasonic Microwave Oven Cookbook. Our pine kitchen with the striped burgundy wallpaper didn’t have much counter space, but we found a spot wedged between the fridge and the little wooden window that opened into the dining room. I didn’t know she was coming home from Sears with not just a microwave, but a convection, one that could house two circular metal baking sheets the size of large pizzas. We helped her to the kitchen and lowered the box onto the linoleum floor. I remember the day our mother walked through the front door with her arms stretched around a cumbersome cardboard box, her permed hair just peaking above the word Panasonic. But there’s something special about the original, traditional, golden fudge. There are many fudge possibilities, like chocolate, sea salt, peppermint, rocky road, and even potato-chip pretzel for goodness sake. This is the kind of confection that requires careful stirring and a wise cook at the stove works with a candy thermometer, or one who knows instinctively by the shape of the bubbles that the mixture has reached 240F. It’s real fudge, the caramel coloured kind that crumbles when sliced but is creamy in the mouth. His wife made it for a bake sale she hosted over the weekend. Harry brought us a container of fudge today. Whatever it takes to scrape away decades of paint from these old windows is worth classic rock, cranked to ten. Our neighbours must find it loud, but I’m not going to say anything. Blue Rodeo is blasting from the paint-splattered radio that he places at the foot of his ladder. ![]() I can see his ankles through our living room window, his worn Reeboks perched on the rung of a ladder. A man named Harry is painting the trim of our house.
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