Saveur

Photo: Penny De Los Santos

When I was nine years old, my grandmother gave my family the Candy Cookbook by Mildred Brand. I studied it in bed each night, poring over the color photographs and descriptions of exotic-looking sweets I'd never tasted: orientals (airy chocolate-covered candies made with egg whites and glycerine), apple–walnut jellies, sea foam (a creamy, divinity-like candy), date chews, pineapple fudge, cream nut caramels, and on and on. When I got to the page that depicted thick, chocolatey peppermint patties stacked artfully on a Depression-glass dish, I knew instantly that these were candies I had to make.

A few days later, with the ingredients laid out before me and Mom hovering watchfully nearby, I haltingly read the recipe aloud, stopping short after the line "Cook to 236 degrees. Pour out onto a slab". I wasn't sure what a "slab" was; I turned to my mother. Smiling, she walked into the living room and removed the television from the small wooden table it rested on. The tabletop was a dust-covered tablet of brown marble I'd never noticed before. Mom removed the slab, lugged it into the kitchen, washed it with soapy water, and declared it fit for use. She walked me through the rest of the recipe, watching as I poured hot sugar syrup onto the marble, working it into long, milky-white ribbons of fondant as it cooled, kneading it like bread dough to blend in green food coloring and peppermint oil, and then forming the candy into disks, which I dipped in melted chocolate. When all was finished, I tasted the results. The peppermint patties were plenty sweet, but the chocolate covering had never quite set and the flavors never quite melded. Those flaws didn't prevent my mother from proudly taking the candies to work with her the next morning.

It's just past noon in Mason, and there's more candy to be made. Mom stands in a corner of the kitchen measuring out mounds of cocoa for her prized hot fudge sauce. The recipe, which came with a gas bill in 1974, is a closely guarded secret. I've asked her for it a few times, but she always laughs and says the same thing, "You'll just have to find it in my recipe file when I'm gone." It's become a running joke between us, and it doesn't look as if I'll get her to spill the beans today. In any case, I'm distracted by other matters, rummaging through the bags I packed last night before driving out from Austin. My fears are confirmed: I've forgotten the sticks I'll need for the lime and cherry lollipops we're going to make. My mother quickly gets on the phone, enlisting outside help. Suzanne Bjork, a friend who runs Hinckley's Country Store, suggests calling a woman at Mason County Meats who makes candy on the side. Sure enough, she has a spare bag of lollipop sticks. Mom sets off on foot to pick them up.

By seven o'clock that evening, the candy making is nearly done. Most of the treats we've made get set aside for Christmas Day, but that still leaves a veritable mountain of desserts for the impromptu dinner of roast chicken that I've decided to make tonight for Mom and a few of her friends. After the dinner dishes have been cleared away, everyone retires to the living room, where serving trays on a long mahogany sideboard display a kaleiodoscopic array of sweets, including Mom's stained-glass windows, the lollipops, the sugar cookies, and my peppermint patties, which I've finally mastered. Still in my apron, I grab a coconut candy bar, collapse into a chair, and take in the cozy scene. I guess you could say that Mom and I have finally gotten our just desserts.