Julius Rosenthal will make candy no more and other short stories, Nicholas Russell [android pdf ebook reader TXT] 📗

cups of sugar. Julius measured out the sugar: it was almost six cups, but not quite. He wondered how many strings of candy that would make. He walked into the front room and retrieved the book. The book was his family recipes; each generation would add one now and again, but they never altered the originals set down by the company’s founder. Julius had been named for this man, and carried the weight of that name with him whenever he would make a batch of candies.

For three of the six generations, the book sat on the counter next to the register. A new place was needed after a man passing through town had attempted to grab it from the counter and make a run for it. He had barely gotten to the door before he was tackled by a group of children. His grandfather Tobias loved to tell that story; he said it reminded them of the inherent good in all children. Julius had liked the story because it was always followed by a caramel. He pulled the book from below the counter and placed it gently on the glass counter top.

Julius wanted a caramel, now and looked to the large glass container across the room. From here it looked empty but he crossed the room anyway. Up close Julius could see a single candy in its dull wax wrapper. He pulled the heavy, leaded-glass lid from the jar, took the end of the wrapper between two fingers, and stopped. Julius’ father had been a fickle man in the early years when Julius was not a candy maker, but an apprentice. His father had hammered into him that the candy was for the customers; every little bit was a piece of silver from your pocket. Julius let go and replaced the lid.

Back at the counter he carefully opened the book; a dab of colored paint in the top corner told what each section of the book contained. He flipped past the red dots (soft candies) and the yellows (chocolates) to the blues. Julius had always preferred the blues - hard candies stored well and could always be slipped to a sad child to bring out a quick smile. He turned the pages slowly, looking over each page with care; with only a small amount of sugar, he wanted to make something that had a nice sweet flavor. He settled finally on rock candy; it was a simple recipe, simple enough that school children made it but rock candy was always a favorite. The recipe called for sixty pounds of sugar; Julius did the math reducing it to the amount he had. He had enough sugar to make three - only three? Julius did the math again making sure to check each figure before moving to the next.

A deep sadness came over Julius as he closed the book and looked at the near-empty store front. It had been weeks since a customer entered the shop. He looked out the front window, a view he used to enjoy, that was now blocked by a large gold star painted across the window. He slid the book back into its place below the counter and returned to the back room. Hanging from a hook just inside the door was a tan apron. Julius took it down and slipped it over his head before tying it around his waist.

Besides holding storage, the backroom also held an old stove and oven. Above the stove was a rack holding five pots. The smallest held no more than a cup and was used to make cream fillings. The next size larger was what he needed but he didn’t have a pot in between. He set the pot on the stove and crossed the room to the sink. Years earlier he had bought multiple measuring cups in what his father would surely have called over-indulgence. Julius just liked to have one cup for each ingredient; it kept the flavors from mixing before they should. He filled the glass to the necessary mark and poured it into the pot.

The stove’s knobs were speckled with rust and the labels had worn off long ago; as he turned the knob a blue flame burst out from under the pot. Julius bent down bringing the flame to eye level and began to turn the knob again. Julius’ father had mastered the knobs, and could always get the perfect flame on the first turn. It was a skill that despite his years making candy, Julius never cared to master. He twisted the knob back and forth just slightly, bringing the flame higher and lower.

With the flame at the desired level, Julius stood back up and stretched his back. His age was beginning to haunt Julius; the times when he could grab fifty pound bags of sugar were long gone. He had accepted that, but it was now getting to the point where the everyday work needed to run the shop was slipping. He had hoped his son, Albert, would have taken over the shop, but the Great War took his Albert away. Albert’s passing had not taken his tears or even the passing of his beloved Ava, it was when God took Juliette. Julius had not blamed the driver in his fancy car; he blamed God for the death of the sweet Juliette.

The hiss of spilled water drew Julius back to the present; the pot was to a rapid boil now. He chided himself for his lapse; in his grief, Julius had forgotten to add the orange rind. He dug around in the cabinet looking for the old steel grater. Julius had talked to a salesman once who tried to get him to start using artificial