My Christmas Fudge — The Sweet That Closes the Julbord Table

Karin called from Stockholm. We talk every Sunday now. Mamma's death made the sister-calls non-negotiable. Karin and Astrid and me. The three remaining girls. We hold each other up across the distance — Stockholm to Duluth to the Twin Cities, the triangle of us. We talk about the weather. We talk about the grandchildren. We talk about Mamma sometimes, but mostly we talk about whatever is in front of us. The whatever-is-in-front-of-us is the love. Lena moved to Bozeman, Montana. She is a wildlife biologist now. She sends photos of bears. The photos are on the fridge. I worry. I do not say. The worry is the standard grandmotherly worry — bears, weather, men, distance. Lena is fine. Lena has always been fine. Lena is the most self-sufficient grandchild I have, and the most distant, and the one I worry about specifically because of both of those things. Jakob got engaged. To a woman named Claire. They are both teachers. Jakob is twenty-eight. The wedding is in spring. I will bake the cake. The princess cake. The sacred cake. The cake of every Johansson wedding since I made it for my own wedding to Paul in 1988. I am sixty-something and I am still baking the cake. I will bake the cake at every Johansson wedding for as long as the hands work. The julbord happened. The family came (the ones who could). The almond was found. The akvavit was poured. Paul's chair was empty and full at once, the way it always is. The house was loud and full for one perfect night and quiet again by Sunday morning. The dishwasher ran nine times. The leftovers will last me through New Year's. The 32nd julbord (or however many it is now) is in the books. I cooked Julbord — twelve dishes this week. The Christmas Eve buffet — pickled herring three ways, gravlax, meatballs, Jansson's temptation, brown beans, red cabbage, limpa bread, saffron buns, pepparkakor, rice pudding with the hidden almond, glögg, akvavit. Three plates per guest across the evening. Damiano Center, Thursday. New volunteer this week — a young woman named Sara, just out of college, looking lost and brave. I showed her how to ladle. She caught on quickly. She asked me how long I had been doing this. I said: "Long enough that I do not count." She laughed. She will be back. The good ones come back. Paul's chair is at the head of the table. His glasses are on the shelf. The arrangement is permanent. The arrangement is the love. The arrangement has been remarked on, gently, by various people over the years — Anna, mostly, and well-meaning friends. The arrangement persists. I do not require justification for it. The chair is the chair. It is enough. Paul is not here. Mamma is not here. Pappa is not here. Erik is not here. They are all here in the kitchen, in the smell, in the taste, in the wooden spoon and the bread pans and the marble slab. The dead are not where the body went. The dead are in the kitchen. I have started, in the last few years, to think about what I will leave behind. Not in a morbid way. In a practical way. The recipes are written down. The notebook is on the counter. The kitchen is in good order. The house is in Anna's name (we did the legal work in 2032; the kids agreed; it was the practical thing). The grandchildren and great-grandchildren each have a few small specific things — a wooden spoon, a bread pan, a particular cast iron skillet — that I have already labeled with their names on small pieces of masking tape. Nobody knows about the masking tape labels. They will find them when they find them. It is enough.

The julbord has twelve dishes, and I make every one of them, but there is always something small and sweet I set out at the end — not part of the formal count, just the thing that closes the table. This year it was fudge. After the dishwasher ran its ninth cycle and the last grandchild had gone home and the house had gone quiet, I stood in the kitchen cutting squares of it and wrapping pieces for Jakob to take to Claire, and for Lena’s box headed to Montana. It is a small thing. The small things are the ones that travel. This is the recipe I use — simple enough to make in the middle of all the rest of it, sweet enough to mean something.

My Christmas Fudge

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 15 minutes | Total Time: 2 hours 25 minutes (includes chilling) | Servings: 36 pieces

Ingredients

• 3 cups granulated sugar
• 3/4 cup unsalted butter
• 2/3 cup evaporated milk
• 1 package (12 oz) semi-sweet chocolate chips
• 1 jar (7 oz) marshmallow creme
• 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 1 cup chopped walnuts or pecans (optional)

Instructions

1. Prepare the pan. Line a 9x13-inch baking pan with aluminum foil, leaving an overhang on the sides for easy removal. Lightly butter the foil and set aside.
2. Cook the base. Combine sugar, butter, evaporated milk, and salt in a heavy-bottomed 3-quart saucepan over medium heat. Stir constantly until the butter melts and the sugar dissolves.
3. Bring to a boil. Increase heat slightly and bring the mixture to a full rolling boil, stirring constantly. Once boiling, continue to cook and stir for exactly 5 minutes. The mixture should reach 234–240°F (soft-ball stage) on a candy thermometer.
4. Add chocolate and marshmallow. Remove from heat immediately. Add the chocolate chips and marshmallow creme. Stir vigorously until the chocolate is fully melted and the mixture is completely smooth.
5. Finish and fold. Stir in the vanilla extract. Fold in the chopped nuts if using.
6. Pour and set. Pour the fudge into the prepared pan and spread evenly with a spatula. Let cool at room temperature for 30 minutes, then refrigerate for at least 2 hours until fully firm.
7. Cut and store. Lift fudge from pan using the foil overhang. Cut into 1-inch squares. Store in an airtight container at room temperature for up to 2 weeks, or wrap pieces individually and freeze for up to 3 months.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 148 | Protein: 1g | Fat: 6g | Carbs: 23g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 38mg