Sample Narrative Essay

Mrs. Scott

7^th Grade English

January 9, 2012

Overfudged

Traditions in my extended family seem to center around food. I’m not sure if this is a generational thing or something specific to my family. On my dad’s side of the family, one of our traditions for every birthday party was my grandma’s homemade hot fudge. We celebrated every family member’s birthday at my grandparents’ house, and while the main course varied depending on the choice of the birthday honoree, there was always cake, ice cream, and homemade hot fudge for dessert. I have never been a huge fan of cake, but that hot fudge was to die for. Now that my grandmother is no longer living, we don’t have homemade hot fudge at birthday parties anymore. My aunts think that Mrs. Richardson’s hot fudge in a jar is an acceptable substitute, but they are wrong. Oh, so wrong.

To make up for the lack of hot fudge at birthday parties, I will often make it at home, for my family, and of course, for me. As I’m gently stirring the rather imprecise quantities of melting chocolate chips, butter, milk, and sugar in a saucepan on the stove, my thoughts always take me back to one particular birthday party when I was six years old.

“Grandma’s hot fudge!” we kids squealed as we saw our beloved grandmother carrying the familiar silver boat nearly overflowing with steamy, silky smooth fudge. Our grandma was the quintessential farm grandma. She was good at all things sewing, gardening, cooking, canning, and course, hot fudge. She always served it in the same silver boat that I think was designed for gravy, but no one liked gravy nearly as much as fudge!

The birthday boy or girl (or man or woman) always got the first serving of hot fudge. And cake, too, for the record, but no one really cared too much about the cake. Or maybe they did, but in my little six-year-old brain all I thought of was the fudge. This particular birthday was party was for Tony, my five-year-old cousin. His eyes were round as saucers as he picked up that pitcher of fudge and held it perilously over his bowl of frosty vanilla ice cream. My aunts held their breath in hopes that those little chubby hands would be able to handle the pitcher. Cleaning up a mess of fudge would not be fun.

Slowly, slowly, he tipped the pitcher and the fudge began to pour out. We waited patiently as he covered his ice cream with the perfect layer of chocolatey goodness. And then, a second layer of chocolatey goodness. And then a third. I glanced at my aunts to gauge their reaction. His mother seemed to be having an internal struggle of birthday-boy-entitlement versus common courtesy. My other aunt raised an eyebrow. My cousin Anita looked at me and giggled. My uncles were oblivious, leaning over to steal looks at the football game on the living room television. My own mother’s mouth fell open slightly in shock. Grandma beamed. Was anyone going to stop this kid!? Should I say something?

Ultimately Tony’s fudge-pouring extravaganza ended because he ran out of room in his ice cream bowl. Even his five-year-old brain could figure that out. Unfortunately, my grandmother had generously-sized bowls, and he had quite a pile of fudge there. He smiled, and passed the pitcher to the next person. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief that he’d stopped pouring before creating a river of chocolate on the white tablecloth.

Anita gratefully accepted the pitcher. She nearly threw it into the air because it was so much lighter than she expected it to be. “Anthony!!” she exclaimed (we use his full name when we are serious). “You took almost all of the hot fudge!” Personally, I think she should have called him Anthony Thomas Eakle, because he took all of the hot fudge, and that is an offense deserving of a person’s FULL name.

Tony looked a little sheepish, but not much. He shot a look at my grandma and she silently nodded approval. Apparently birthday boys are entitled to whatever share of fudge they wish. No one else said a word, for a long time, and then suddenly my grandfather burst into laughter. He sounded like a donkey when he laughed, and it was impossibly contagious. Everyone joined in. Tony turned as red as a stop light, but he sat there and began eating that fudge spoonful by spoonful.

The rest of the party was spent teasing him about the fudge. As was every party after that. “Don’t give Tony the fudge first!” we would joke. Every year. Every party, even into his teenage years. I’m sure Tony got tired of the teasing about that one time long ago, but in my opinion, he paid his penance for depriving the rest of the family of fudge on that one fateful day.

I simply cannot make hot fudge without remembering this particular birthday party, and I cannot help but smile every time I remember it.

Grandma Evelyn’s Hot Fudge:

A bag of chocolate chips

Some butter

A handful (or four) of sugar

Some milk

Warm on medium-low heat, stirring constantly, until smooth.