Cooking 9/10ths of the time

I am amazed that I haven't ever once before commented on my worship of fudge. I adore it, I love it to pieces, I love it with my mouth - until it is gone. Then I love them with my tummy and then I love it with my colon. I could continue but this is a food blog and too much intestinal chit-chat brings the tone down. By about 5 cm, just below the stomach - which is really where we should stay. Fudge. Swoon. Suddenly I am all switched on to making fudge. Somehow I don't think that I ever actually recognised that I could make the fudge! It felt a bit like chocolate to me. Chocolate just comes from the Valrhona factory. I can manipulate it and cook with it, but I can't create chocolate! I'm not some sort of chocolate God . I am just a disciple. This is how I felt about fudge too. A disciple in a happy, chubby, pagan conga line. But, but, I can make fudge. I can. And I have been. What started this? A recipe of course, and a picture. A nice picture of beautifully cut dar