Chocolate Fudge

The particular stage of life a man is experiencing, at least in America, can easily be determined by the cash register receipts on his kitchen counters and in his pants pockets.  When I was younger, a lot younger, there were tons of receipts from sporting goods and auto parts stores.  A little later in my life the receipts were mostly from hardware and lumber places.  Now, I seem to collect receipts from pharmacy chains.

Oh yeah, I also have a bunch of receipts from grocery stores. I'm not sure if they are of any value in determining the stage I'm currently experiencing but I can tell you one thing I've learned from them - it takes a lot fewer grocery receipts to equal one pound of body weight these days than it used to. 

I collected another receipt from Walgreen's today because Carolyn and I went there to pick up a couple more bottles of pills.  If you've ever been to a Walgreen Pharmacy you'll remember the pills are way, way in back in the farthest corner from the entrance.  It's an old retailers trick that everybody knows about but still falls for, and they do it so you have to walk by all the Valentines candy.  You know, the three or four teeny tiny pieces of the cheapest possible candy surrounded by the largest, reddest box they can find and actually sell for between three and thirty bucks.  I'm starting to think Valentines Day has turned into a bigger disaster than Christmas.

Never mind, I just thought about it a little more and Christmas is worse.  I guess it's just that I've had a month to forget how badly that holiday has fared.  Anyway, I'll try to get back to the subject.  I promise. 

Carolyn almost made it down the aisle with me, past the Valentine candy, and to the pill place.  Almost.  Instead of walking by those pretty red boxes, she stopped.  And grabbed one.  I pretended not to notice, even when I paid for it and the miracle pills that promise to give me long life for just 145 bucks a month.  Thank goodness for Part D insurance, the hundred-an-a-half  is the just the deductible I must pay.  Heaven knows how much the druggies are charging my insurance company.  She opened the red box on the way home and started in.  Being one of the smallest boxes,  it wound up empty before dinner.

Like the good girl she is, she ate all the dinner I had prepared so I decided to make her some fudge.  If my wife wants candy, by golly, I'm gonna see she has it.  So, off to the grocery store (remember I collect grocery receipts too?)  for some ingredients.  Then an hour at the stove, mixing and stirring, and out pops the best darn chocolate fudge in the county. 

We have enough to share with the neighbors, who have been feeding sweets to us since we moved in, and our portion will last for a week.  All for just an hour at the stove and less than the price of the red box.