You take a bite. It’s smooth. It’s creamy. It melts on your tongue like velvet. And suddenly, you’re eight years old again, standing on a step stool in your grandmother’s kitchen, watching her stir a pot of magic.
This is Mom’s Fudge.
Not the grainy, overly sweet kind that sticks to your teeth. Not the complicated version that requires a candy thermometer and a prayer. This is the fudge that’s been passed down through generations—the one that shows up at every holiday, every birthday, every “I just need sweet” moment.
