I’ve spent a good chunk of my life driving up north to the cottage. Always the same long drive in the back seat with my brother, me wrapped up in blankets singing songs, while he’d smash plastic super heros together. Mom would pack egg sandwiches and crackers, and Dad would listen to talk radio, wedge cans of Coke in the drivers console to keep him alert. He was always real focused on getting there.

Often times we’d pass by these trading posts along the way, never stopping in, just passing by. I was always a little curious of what went on there. It wasn’t until later in life that I discovered what I had missed out on all those years…..Fudge. Glorious fudge. All different kinds of it. Served by little old ladies in moccasins and knitted sweaters with pinned on elaborate broaches.

This year I told myself, enough is enough. This year, and every year, and every drive up north moving forward, we’re stopping into a Trading Post and buying a brick of fudge (maybe two) for the road. It’ll be a new tradition, like pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving.