By Halloween is Saturday and Denise has put a pumpkin on the front porch, which I told her is fine as long as nobody expects me to carve it. My hands have better things to do than fight with a gourd. Monique is bringing her class from Hodge Elementary trick-or-treating through the neighborhood Friday afternoon — a parade of small children in costumes stumbling up sidewalks — and Denise asked me what I wanted to hand out. I said, "Candy, Denise. You hand out candy at Halloween. This is not complicated." She meant did I want to make something. I said no. Then I made caramel popcorn anyway because I am a liar and I cannot help myself.
The caramel popcorn is Hattie Pearl's recipe, which means it is brown sugar and butter and a little vinegar and patience. You cook the caramel until it's dark and pulls in ribbons off the spoon, then you pour it over popcorn and stir until every kernel is coated and your arm is tired and the kitchen smells like a carnival that loves you. I bagged it in little cellophane bags that Denise had from something — a church event, a school thing, I don't ask — and tied them with orange ribbon. Twenty bags for the trick-or-treaters and one large bowl for me, which I ate half of on Wednesday while watching my shows and I do not regret it.
Kayla's morning call this week included news: Devon got a commendation at work. He pulled somebody from a car wreck on the Truman Parkway and the department recognized him for it. I said, "That is what he does." Kayla said, "I know, but it's nice when someone notices." She's right. It is nice when someone notices. Most of the work that holds this world together is done by people who show up and do the thing and go home and nobody writes it in the paper. Earl was like that. Thirty years keeping a hotel running and the guests never knew his name. But the building stood. The lights worked. The toilets flushed. That's its own kind of heroism, the kind nobody makes movies about.
The collards got their first frost Thursday night. I went out Friday morning with Denise and touched the leaves — cold and beaded with water, dark green, alive. We'll pick them next week. They will be the sweetest of the year. Everything is, after the frost.
Now go on and feed somebody.
The small seven grandchildren live in the small scatter across the small Southeast. Earl Jr. (the small oldest son) is in Atlanta working for UPS. Patricia (the small daughter) is in Jacksonville with her small husband and three small kids. Michael (the middle son) had been killed in 1998 in the small I-16 accident outside Macon at age 27; his small daughter Kayla had been raised by Dot and Earl and is now a small nurse at Memorial Hospital. Denise (the small youngest daughter) is in Savannah ten minutes away and checks on Dot daily.
The small Southern-cooking tradition is the small kitchen-identity. The small fried chicken on the small Sunday. The small collard greens with the small smoked ham hock cooked low and slow for three hours. The small cornbread baked in the small cast-iron skillet that had been Hattie Pearl’s (Dot’s mother’s) and her mother’s before that. The small biscuits-and-gravy. The small recipes that have been in the family since the small 1920s.
The small monthly grandchild-visits rotate through the small school-year. Earl Jr.’s family comes the small first weekend of the month. Patricia’s family comes the small second weekend. Denise and Kayla drop by the small most-weekends. The small fourth weekend Dorothy has to herself. The small four-week-rotation has held since 2019.
The caramel popcorn was already promised to the trick-or-treaters, and I ate half my personal bowl on a Wednesday, so the math was not adding up. I needed something I could bag up alongside it — something bright and colorful and festive that the children would actually notice, the kind of thing that makes a small person in a skeleton costume stop at the end of your driveway and look back. Gumdrop fudge is exactly that. Hattie Pearl made fudge the same way she made everything: slowly, on low heat, with more patience than most people are born with. The gumdrops go in at the end, and when you cut it into squares it looks like stained glass, and that is reason enough.
Gumdrop Fudge
Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 10 min | Total Time: 2 hrs 25 min (includes chilling) | Servings: 64 pieces
Ingredients
- 3 cups white chocolate chips
- 1 can (14 oz) sweetened condensed milk
- 2 tablespoons unsalted butter
- 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
- 1/4 teaspoon salt
- 1 1/2 cups small gumdrops, halved (reserve 1/2 cup for topping)
Instructions
- Prepare the pan. Line an 8x8-inch baking pan with parchment paper, leaving a 2-inch overhang on two sides. Lightly butter the parchment.
- Melt the base. In a medium, heavy-bottomed saucepan over low heat, combine the white chocolate chips, sweetened condensed milk, and butter. Stir constantly with a wooden spoon or silicone spatula until fully melted and smooth, about 8—10 minutes. Do not rush the heat — low and slow keeps it from scorching.
- Season and cool slightly. Remove the pan from heat. Stir in the vanilla extract and salt until fully incorporated. Let the mixture rest and cool for 5 minutes, stirring occasionally.
- Fold in the gumdrops. Gently fold 1 cup of the halved gumdrops into the fudge mixture. Work quickly so the gumdrops don’t bleed too much color into the base.
- Pour and top. Spread the fudge evenly into the prepared pan. Scatter the remaining 1/2 cup gumdrops over the top and press them lightly into the surface.
- Chill until firm. Refrigerate uncovered for at least 2 hours, or until the fudge is fully set and firm to the touch.
- Cut and serve. Use the parchment overhang to lift the fudge out of the pan. Place on a cutting board and cut into 1-inch squares with a sharp knife. Wipe the blade clean between cuts for neat edges. Bag in cellophane with ribbon if you are the kind of person who does that. You know who you are.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 85 | Protein: 1g | Fat: 3g | Carbs: 14g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 20mg