No one ever chewed my mother’s hand-beaten fudge poured into a single pie pan to cool and be cut. My mother’s cocoa-powder fudge made-from-scratch did not melt in your hand, nor stick to your fingers. But it did crumble, and we greedily sought out each tiny brown-topaz crystal to stretch out the moments of delight for as long as possible.

You popped a small square whole into your mouth, or you bit the tiny cube in half to make the pleasure last. An inextricably delicate grit slid across your teeth only to melt immediately on your tongue as swift a liquefaction as when ultra-fine silt dissolves into rain.

The essence of that fudge then spilled into every oral crevice, across every smooth plain until it slipped inevitably over the edge of tongue to slide down the long narrow gully of your throat.  Afterwards, the briefest memory clung to teeth and gums like perfume lingers on a breeze.

The fragrance of the fudge making lingered in the rooms of the house tantalizing us long after the pie tin was empty, washed and put away.

No one ever chewed my mother’s homemade cocoa-powder fudge, but oh, how we indulged.

#HersheyCocoaFudge #HomemadeFudge #ChocolateFudge

Though the sun had shown bright and clear today

And now the moon is softly shimmering

Its cloak of silver on all that is below,

Something seems to be somewhat askew.

Is the grass no longer bright green?

Or the trees, though now silvered,

Have they all died?

But I can still see flowers growing tall

Across all the nearest meadows,

The wind still smells sweet and pure.

What is it that makes me feel so disturbed?

Perhaps it was the constant drumming cries

Across the land of harsh words, angry smacks

And a sound of evil unleashed and freed

That boils as if blown out from within

And what invisible angry power erupts

In bitter and cindered homes?

Is there no way to chain within the meanness

So we no longer will be assailed?

Please, someone, somewhere answer me.

#Hatred #Prejudice