How My Grandmother Made Divinity Fudge Wasn’t the Only Mystery She Was Hiding

Sadly, the banquet fit for a king was almost over. The mounds of stuffing, fragrant from the sage and potatoes my grandmother mixed in, were reduced to a few crumbs sticking to the bowl. A tray of cinnamon rolls that oozed with butter and spice was empty.

Uncles, aunts, and cousins pushed back from the long oak table. "You outdid yourselves this time," my father told his parents. "Next year you really should take it easy and let one of us host Thanksgiving."

"Humph," my grandfather responded. "We'll do this as long as we can."

Several ladies replaced the empty serving dishes with desserts: apple, pumpkin, lemon meringue, and custard pies; peanut butter and chocolate fudge; and chocolate cake. My grandmother, who had been making all sorts of whirling sounds with her electric mixer in her private baking pantry, entered the dining room with a plate piled with the most difficult fudge to make.

"Would anyone care for some Divinity Fudge?"

I smiled and held out my hand. "I would!" I loved her fudge and often wondered how she made it. Each piece looked like a miniature white cloud with specks of walnut peeking out. But in one bite, the sugary cloud melted in my mouth.

Suddenly I blurted out a question that had been simmering in my head all day. "Grammy, when did you and Grampy get married?"

Her pale blue eyes fluttered a second. After I took two pieces of fudge, she quickly turned and began serving someone else.

My mother whispered in my ear. "I saw the whole thing. She was ignoring you, but I don't know why!"

Grandmother Amy Spear Russell, early 1900s.

A few months later, Mother and I found ourselves cleaning my grandparents' house where they had lived since before my father was born. Gram and Gramp had died suddenly within five weeks of each other, and now the house had to be sold.

Opening a little drawer in an upstairs bureau, I spied several yellowed papers. One was my father's baptismal record. Another was his brother's. A heavier, third document was the answer to my question. "Their marriage certificate!" I shouted.

Mother read it over and looked at the date. "So that's why they always insisted we come to their house for Thanksgiving. They were married either on that day or just before. And last year was their 50th."

While she was talking, I was counting out the months between their marriage and my father's birth, never dreaming I'd end up two fingers short of nine. Mother's eyes met mine. "There's no way he was born that early. He was a big baby, and she carried him full term. I've seen his pictures."

The 1859 court house in Houlton.

I slowly realized what a sacrifice my grandparents had made. Back in the 1920s, things were different than they are today. They married in secret in Houlton, a town 50 miles from their home, hoping the neighbors wouldn't notice when the pregnancy began. And yet they did marry, despite my grandmother having to leave college and my grandfather having to work for his dad.

Their primary focus was to bring up their children to know that they were loved. Years later, they still wanted their grown family all together once a year to celebrate their marriage and their love for us.

Since then, I have tried in vain to make Divinity Fudge the way my grandmother did. The process of how she did it is still a mystery to me. But I pray that the more important tradition of my grandparents' loving dedication to family will continue to be practiced--throughout our generation, and beyond.