Baking

Grease an eight inch by thirteen inch baking pan, then set aside.

Cooking has always been a way to take my mind off of things that I didn’t wish to dwell on. It is the only thing I know will always go right, a constant in my life. If I follow the directions throughly, it will turn out just right again and again.

Put two and a half cups of sugar, a stick and a half of butter, and five ounces of evaporated milk in a medium sauce pan. Place over medium heat and stir constantly.

Some call it an art, some call it a science, others just claim it is just making food, nothing else. To me, it is an escape. Mindlessly stirring a boiling pot, or carefully measuring a cup of flour or sugar. And then, once everything has come out just right, the pleasure of serving it to your love ones. I remember when I first cooked for him. I believe it was salmon, a bit burnt and too lemony, but we both seemed to enjoy it.

It was our sixth date, and I finally decided to have him over for a night. I remember my panic, making sure everything was perfect. I couldn’t stand if something didn’t go according to plan. And people say that was why my relationships were all doomed to fail, because I couldn’t be happy with mistakes. Maybe that is why I stuck to cooking.

When mixture comes to full boil, put timer on for five minutes and stir vigorously. When timer goes off, take pan off of heat.

But I could accept mistakes. I was very much human, and I could understand others to be human too. He wasn’t perfect, I knew that. But I loved him. I loved how he would smile lazily at me when I started joking with him. I loved how he would rest his head on mine when I was typing. I loved the feel of his hands, the warmth of his breath, his kisses, his words, every minuscule thing about him, I loved. And maybe that was setting me up for heartbreak.

Add one teaspoon of vanilla extract and stir into mixture.

When he asked me to marry him, that was the greatest day of my life. Followed soon by my fairy tale wedding, the birth of the twins Annalise and Anastasia, the birth of our son Lee, and the conception of our soon to be new bundle of joy. I had a job that I loved, and a family I adored to the ends of the Earth. I was so very happy and content with my life.

Add eight ounces of marshmallow cream. Stir into mixture until mostly blended.

But life is never just black and white. It is gray. So much gray. Of course we had all of those couple tiffs, fights that would end with him on the couch for the night, hearing my children crying because of their fears of what was to happen. But nothing too serious. Our fights were getting fewer and fewer. Most of them became just loud arguments. I thought our couple-hood was well established. But apparently, he didn’t.

Add twelve ounces of semi-sweet chocolate chips. Stir into mixture until completely blended.

It started with just a few late nights, coming home at the end of dinner, claiming he was needed at work. I understood. His job was demanding, and his work understaffed. I smiled gently and reheated the left overs for him. I would sit at the table why he ate, talking with him. The children were in the next room playing and laughing, like me not thinking anything was wrong.

Then it got worse. Sometimes it would be days before I would see him again after he left for work. He started missing important family dates like birthdays and holiday dinners. The children in their youthful naivety believed his lies of work and gave into his pleas of forgiveness. But I couldn’t. At first I wanted to ignore it. Though he was gone more, he was so much more affectionate then ever when he was home. He played with the children, took us out, and spent every night in my embrace. But I couldn’t ignore it either after awhile. I knew what was happening.

Add one cup of chopped pecans. Stir into mixture until they are evenly distributed.

“Mommy, are you making fudge?” questions a cherub face, smiling that now gaped tooth mouth at me, her eyes a light with glee at the prospect of her favorite treat. I smile back and nod. She giggles in joy then runs off to share the news with her sister and brother.

How I often wished I could go back to the days of youth, were I truthfully believed that all stories ended with they lived happily ever after. But with knowledge comes wisdom, and with wisdom comes understanding. And with understanding, comes hopelessness.

Pour fully blended mixture into baking pan, spread out evenly.

I have told noone else about it, though I am sure they know just like me. A few have even brought up the subject of divorce to me, but I would just leave, telling them everything was fine. It could be worse, I kept telling myself. He could be an alcoholic, he could beat me, he could hurt the children, he could do drugs, but he doesn’t. He just doesn’t love you anymore.

And was the lost of love a reason to break up a perfectly good marriage? I know many people would say yes, but I didn’t know what the answer was. Could I really just tell him I want a divorce, destroying our family and breaking my children’s hearts? Was it selfish to want out? I could give myself a million reasons why I didn’t confront him.

I was afraid. Afraid of him admitting it, of him saying he loved this other woman more then me, afraid of having to start over. Just afraid.

Chill fudge in refrigerator for two hours.

The phones rings when I start to clean up.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Is this Mrs. Smith?” He asked me.

“Yes,” I answer, inspecting a solicitor.

“Are you married to a Dr. Adam Smith?” he ask in a monotone voice.

“Yes, but he is at work,” I said, repeating the lie he told me when he called earlier. I knew he was with her somewhere.

“I am sorry to inform you ma’am,” he says in that same voice. “But your husband was killed in a fire at the home of a Miss Sarah Johnson.”

“What,” I asked confused. The tears I didn’t think I would shed at hearing such news sprang forth. I started to sob as they fell freely.

“I am sorry for your lost ma’am,” he said. I wasn’t sure if he was or not. He might have even realized what was going on between us.

“Do you know how it happened?” I asked when I could finally catch my breath.

“Someone had left a stove unattended,” He finished, as I dropped the phone. “Mrs. Smith? Mrs. Smith? Are you still there? Hello? Ma’am?” He called, though I couldn’t answer.

I guess I wasn’t the only person who used cooking as a method of escape.

Once set, cut and serve as you please.

Author's Notes: The recipe is copyrighted by JiffPuff.