Mom’s famous balls

Peanut butter balls, that is. (Yes, she’d get a kick of that title…she’d probably tell the story of the time we saw the cock rock…but alas, that’s another post.)

For as long as I can remember, Mom made her famous peanut butter balls (along with fudge) every holiday season. She’d store them on the back porch…where the winter air would chill them so they popped ever so perfectly when you put them in your mouth. They were a holiday staple in our home.

I don’t want to lose that. Making peanut butter balls–from the mixing to the rolling to the coating–is a way that I can still see my Mom’s rough hands cupping and forming…a sugared prayer of love.

So, this year, Dave and I bought the pounds of butter and sugar and chocolate affection.

After the butter camped out all day on the counter and softened in the unusually warm Colorado winter air, I kneaded it into silk, like Mom’s stories on a porch.

Just like I did as a little girl.

Then the hard part came…the part Mom openly admitted she hated…the endless rolling into balls, like wheels and waves of memories being shaped in our hearts’ palms.

We tried hard, but no one can master Mom’s tried and true technique.

After the rolling came the dipping. After we tasted it, I realized I used the wrong kind of chocolate. Sorry Mom–stay tuned for next year’s modifications!

We used a double broiler…but Mom always kept her chocolate warm over a low flame. The tilt of the pot (not shown here) was her signature, like a nod to the peanut butter ball gods.

Ours did not look near as adept as hers…but she had many years on us. Hopefully, she’ll grace us with a dusting of powdered sugar technique from heaven. However, there were lots of goodhearted laughs and reminiscing from Dave and I as we realized where we were failing her recipe. I’d like to think we got this hearty laughter from her, seeing as not so many years ago Mom and I were deep-throating peanut butter ball snowmen.

Don’t worry, we posed for a proper date photo first.

Because our family is not together this year, Mom’s delicious peanut butter balls (at least our attempt at them) will be traveling in the sleighs of mail. (To her protests that I can still hear, she’s disappointed that we chose the USPS: “Remember that year I mailed you a card and it didn’t come for months… no [pronounced newwwwwwwww with an accented head shaking and smack of the mouth], can’t trust them anymore.”)

But, without fail, the sleighs have delivered. And Mom’s sweet love continues to spread throughout our family.

 

 

 

 

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