Beef with Aunt Bea

One of my primary childcare philosophies is that when the kids are going nuts, and no amount of redirection or "hey, stop that" is helping to calm their hyperactivity, then the project you'd like to bring into the equation the LEAST is the one you should do.

As warped as that sounds, it really and truly has worked.

This philosophy has produced Jello Wars, Pudding Painting, fingerpainting, and various cooking projects on rainy days when the kids and I are BOTH gazing longingly out the windows at the outdoor playset. And its turned otherwise-insane days into fun, memorable ones where each of the kids are completely plugged in to a group project. You know what Mama says about idle hands, after all...

However, this fail-proof theory blew up rather spectacularly in my face today, thanks to Aunt Bea. Some may remember this woman as the kind-faced mother figure from Mayberry, who doles out sage wisdom and homemade goodies as often as she draws breath on The Andy Griffith Show. However, I will remember her as being a lady to regard with distrust in the kitchen when she offers up an "easy as pie" rainy-day fudge recipe.

The rain was falling today, the kids were doing aimless laps around the house leaving chaos in their wake, no show nor movie would hold their attention, and they seemed determined to injure each other with whatever was in their hand at the moment. Going back to my afore-mentioned philosophy, I grabbed a few cookbooks and began searching for an easy recipe the kids and I could make together. In a Mayberry-themed edition, I found a seemingly-simple fudge recipe containing 6 ingredients we had on hand, 4 steps, and a smiling picture of Aunt Bea.

"C'mon Buddy!" I called, arranging chairs around the kitchen island for the kids to stand on, "Cooking project!"

"Don't wanna!" He called back, eyes glued to a Hulk show that had just started on tv.

So I went ahead with the twins, being enthusiastic, and teaching them each of the ingredients as we added them to the bowl.

Step 1: Mix sugar, milk, and cocoa.

"Sugar." I demonstrated, adding in the ridiculous amount Bea called for.

"Doogah!" They echoed, each sampling some.

"Milk." I went on, measuring some out.

"Mew!" Sissy repeated.

"Doogah!" Brother insisted.

"Cocoa..."

Each baby stuck their finger excitedly in this new ingredient, sampled it, and made a face.

"No!" Sissy admonished me, getting off her chair and leaving.

"Doogah!" Brother demanded.

Step 2: Cook until soft ball stage. Then add in final 3 ingredients.

Figuring the "soft ball stage" would become apparent as I cooked (why would Bea give an instruction that was not as black-and-white as she was?), I pulled Brother away from the stove and began cooking, stirring constantly so the milk-based mixture wouldn't scald. Losing interest quickly, Brother toddled off.

Stir.

Stir some more.

And more.

CRASH!!!!

"Buddy, was that you or the babies??" I called over my shoulder.

"The babies." He answered dully.

Knowing the fudge would surely scald if I stepped away, I put tons of excitement in my voice and gasped with enthusiasm, "Oh my gosh, Buddy, I have the best idea! Do you want to be my extra-special-all-star helper right now?!? And get to earn a treat??" (I planned on using him as a living-room spy, while I was stuck at the stove.)

"Nope. I'm comfortable." He said lazily from the couch.

Sighing, I turned off the stove, and went to extricate the babies from the midst of a toy avalanche they had joyfully created. Once the mess was picked back up, I went back to my post at the stove.

"Do you want to help yet with the fudge, Buddy?"

"Nah..."

Step 2: Cook until soft ball stage. Then add in the final 3 ingredients.

Mmmkay, Bea. I still don't know what you're talking about with the soft ball stage... And I've been stirring for a while...

Stir.

Stir.

Stir some more.

Shake off arm cramp.

Stir.

Darn it, Bea. This was supposed to be a fun project. Now I'm cookin' it alone, the kids aren't even interested anymore, and apparently, I don't speak Mayberry. Come through for me, here!

Stir.

Stir.

She lied.

Stir some more.

"Want to come see what's going on with our fudge?!"

"No. I'm gonna go to the bathroom." Buddy responded.

I can't believe Aunt Bea lied to me.

Stir.

And more stirring.

Nothing ball-like happening.

At this point, I called someone more domestically-inclined, who informed me that the "soft ball stage test" is where you drop a bit of your mixture into water, and if it forms a ball in the water, its done.

HOW IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY WOULD ANY NOVICE FUDGE-MAKER KNOW THAT, BEATRICE?!? What kind of "simple" recipe is this??

Dutifully, I dropped a little into a cup of water.

No, "soft ball", Bea. I think you make things up for kicks.

I gave up, added the final ingredients, and a few marshmallows for giggles (half of which melted) and went to the final step.

Step 3: Pour onto greased cookie sheet and allow to harden.

As I scraped the last bit onto the cookie sheet I was muttering darkly to myself.

"Stupid soft ball trick.... making things up... never made a ball... followed instructions perfectly... Whatever, Aunt Bea, you can kiss my butt...."

"WHY WOULD SOMEONE DO SOMETHING LIKE THAT?!?" Demanded a voice behind me suddenly.

After I disentangled myself from the ceiling fan, I answered Buddy's question.

"They shouldn't. I'm sorry. I wouldn't have said that out loud, but I was being quiet and I thought you went to the bathroom, dude."

"I just finished, and I wanted a snack, and I heard you." He cut his eyes at me.

"I'm sorry, Buddy. That wasn't a nice thing for me to say, even by myself. I'll say sorry next time I see her, ok?"

Satisfied, he walked off smiling, snack in hand.

Here it is now, 4 hours later. The kids are long-since napping. My fudge is still gooey. And I've made a promise to a 4-year-old to apologize to a fictional character.

One who LIES!

Not bitter. Oh no. Not one bit.

The finished product.