Five-Minute Boil by Alison Motluk

Maybe it was the fact that it was day three out of five on her own with the kids — Richard was away on business again — or maybe it was just the grey of winter. The only thing Isobel knew for sure was that she needed chocolate fudge. Nothing else would do.

          Making fudge was not easy. You had to follow the instructions dutifully. There was the boiling and the cooling and the beating. It all had to be carefully executed. And if you were a mother with three kids under five, then you had to have a plan. Isobel did. She mollified the two boys with Ritz crackers and cheese cubes, and she nursed the baby to contentedness — but not quite to sleep — giving her just enough time to get the fudge ingredients boiled and beaten before the baby's eyes closed and the boys grew restless.

          When the kids were all settled in the living room, the older two cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV and the baby on the couch against the bulwark of a rolled-up towel, Isobel stepped unnoticed into the kitchen. She quickly measured out the milk, sugar, and chocolate, and dumped them into a pot.

          The mixture was just reaching a boil when the oldest child, Wesley, called out for some juice.

          "Okay, sweetie, just a sec," she responded in her sing-song voice. It was a voice meant to placate, a voice to convince him he didn't need to spend another thought on the juice, that the juice was on its way.

          He replied he couldn't wait. He was very thirsty. The crackers had made him thirsty, he whined. She had made him thirsty.

          "Sweetie, please," Isobel said back. She heard the way it came out — not quite in the happy-stalling voice she'd intended. Recognizing the danger, she followed up with a cheerful, "Okay, I'm getting it now!"

          But she wasn't. She was frantically sweeping the mixture down off the sides of the pot, then watching it intently as it burbled.

          "I didn't hear the fridge open!" he said accusingly.

          Isobel felt her back stiffen. She could put on a good show of being patient but it wasn't how she usually felt. Mostly she felt overwhelmed. Sometimes she felt angry. Her children were tiny prison guards.

          The fudge entered minute two of its mandatory five-minute boil.

          She heard some huffing from the next room. "If you don't come in here right now," Wesley roared, "I'm going to write on the wall with a crayon!"

          "Don't you dare! " she snapped back. "Don't you dare, or I'll come in there with a wooden spoon—" She didn't actually believe in hitting children. But the angry part of her often threatened it. It's what you did. In any case, she only had one wooden spoon and soon she would need it for the higher purpose of moving the fudge from the pot to the pan. She looked at the clock. Ninety seconds to go.

          She stared down at the seething brown liquid and breathed deeply in and out.

          She realized suddenly that the yelling from the other room had stopped, and this made her nervous. She checked the fudge, then, still stirring, leaned back to peer into the living room. She couldn't see Wesley.

          She lifted the pot off the element and ran into the living room. The baby had fallen asleep on the couch. The younger boy, Jimmy, was still on the floor glued to the television, thumb in mouth as he rubbed a grimy blanket against his cheek. Wesley was missing.

          She saw the crayon marks as soon as she put her head into Wesley's bedroom.

          "What do you think you are doing!" Violent scribbles in three colours illustrated the bottom quarter of the wall next to his bed.

          He said nothing. Then defiantly added another line.

          "Stop that!"

          "You didn't come when I told you to."

          She felt her face grow hot. She knew she was larger, stronger than he was, and that she could, if she wanted to, pry the crayon from his grubby little fingers. She could throw his crayons in the garbage, she could stomp them into shards, she could melt them down into a colourless blob of wax—

          She remembered the fudge. It had to be chilled, then beaten. She could deal with the graffiti later, but the fudge was urgent. Perhaps it could still be salvaged. She turned and strode out of the room.

          She placed the pot into a bowl of cold water. When the mixture seemed cool enough to touch, she plugged in the mixer and switched it to high. The beaters crashed against the sides of the pot. The vibrations in her hands somehow calmed her and the deafening whir was a comfort.

          But above it, she heard her younger boy, Jimmy, calling from the living room.

          Isobel turned the mixer to low and heard the baby wailing. Isobel's mixer had woken her. This would throw off the timing for the rest of the day. After the nap, she had planned to trudge them through the snow to the library and trade in this week's books for a new batch. Now the baby might nap too late, and stay awake into the evening — when Isobel enjoyed her only hour of solitude. She switched off the mixer and started spooning the fudge into a pan.

          The older boy appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Make her stop," he said calmly, "or I'll push her off the couch."

          "No, you will not!" Isobel growled. But she knew he might, so she abandoned the half-transferred fudge.

          Isobel knew that this moment was the critical one. She took a very deep breath. She took Wesley's hand gently and led him into the living room.

          "Let's read a book," she suggested. She scooped up the blubbering baby, and the four of them slouched together into a pile on the floor. The older boy leaned against her shoulder as she read. The younger boy put his head in her lap. They achieved four storybooks-worth of tranquility, a victory.

          Thereafter, Jimmy and Wesley slowly drifted towards their toy cars, and began to race them. When they were sufficiently distracted, Isobel stood up, with the still-awake baby teetering in the crook of her left elbow, and returned to the kitchen.

          The fudge was still liquid and the wooden spoon had become submerged, resting near the bottom of the pan like a shipwreck. Isobel plunged her hand in and rescued it, licking the dripping goo off the spoon, then off her hand. Defeated, she tossed the spoon into the sink and stared at the fudge that she now knew would never set.

          She could hear the boys starting to tussle in the next room. The baby squirmed in her arms.

          She took a clean spoon out of the drawer and began ladling the liquid fudge into her mouth. It was divine. She felt her body tingle. She thought back to her second date with Richard, at that fancy restaurant with the chocolate fountain, how he'd fed her strawberries dripping with chocolate, how she'd laughed so freely, even as he left permanent drip marks down the front of her favourite dress. It was that brief moment in their relationship when he could not take his eyes off her, but he was still afraid to kiss her, and she could tell it was almost killing him to hold back. She'd never held such power, before or since.

          "When are we going to the library?" demanded Wesley from the other room.

          She looked down to find that almost all of the fudge was gone. Sheepishly, she threw the pan and the pot into the sink and filled them with water, watching as the evidence was slowly erased.

          "In a minute," said Isobel. She was already feeling the effects of her binge. She went into the living room and sat on the couch. The baby, somewhat sticky, regarded her. Isobel slouched down a bit more to relieve the pressure in her middle. She undid the top button on her pants. Then she lay right down.

          "When are we going?" Wesley demanded again.

          "I don't know, honey. Mummy's not feeling well."

          She thought she might throw up.

          "But I want to go," proclaimed Wesley. Jimmy burst into tears and garbled something about wanting to go too.

          Isobel dragged herself to the kitchen, where their only phone was attached to the wall. She dialled her neighbour.

          "Oh, Stella..." she said.

          "What's wrong!"

          "I'm so sick. I'm so sick, and Richard is out of town..."

          "You poor thing! Let me come over and take the kids. Do you have the flu?"

          "I —" She almost mentioned the fudge, but then decided against. "I don't know," she said.

          Stella came within minutes, with her own three in tow. She bundled the kids up while Isobel went into the bathroom. As Isobel knelt down beside the toilet, which she'd scoured only that morning, she heard the front door close. The house was very quiet. As she hung her head over the bowl, waiting to heave, a wave passed over her, a wave of euphoria, and she smiled.

 Alison Motluk is an award-winning Toronto-based writer.