The Caramel Apple Incident



Max was a ten-year-old boy who came from a family of do-it-yourselfers. In the Thompson household, if you wanted something, you didn't buy it — you made it. Max's mom baked her own bread, his dad built furniture out of scrap wood, and even his little sister had tried knitting her own scarf (it was more of a yarn snake, but they all admired the effort).

One sunny Saturday, Max's family decided to go to the town carnival. It was filled with bright lights, laughter, and the sweet smell of fried dough. Max wandered through the booths, marveling at the games and the prizes. But then something caught his eye: a gleaming, shiny caramel apple, the perfect blend of sweet and crisp.

Max had never tasted a caramel apple before. He took a bite, and it was pure magic. The caramel was chewy and sugary, and the apple was tart and fresh. He felt like he'd discovered a treasure. On the way home, he announced, "I'm going to make caramel apples at home!"

His parents, always happy to encourage a new project, smiled. "Just make sure you find a recipe," his mom reminded him. "And be careful with the hot sugar," his dad added, almost as an afterthought.

Max took their advice seriously — or at least part of it. He rode his bike to the local library, where he found an old cookbook with a recipe for caramel apples. He scribbled down the instructions, feeling like a real chef.

Back home, Max gathered his ingredients: apples, sugar, butter, and a pinch of salt. He'd seen his mom and dad cook before, so he knew what he was doing. He poured a cup of sugar into a frying pan and turned the heat up high. He watched with fascination as the sugar melted and bubbled, turning into a golden, molten syrup.

"This is going to be amazing!" Max thought. He grabbed an apple in his left hand, then picked up the pan with his right hand, ready to pour the caramel over it.

But then something went terribly wrong.

The caramel didn't pour where Max expected it to. Instead of landing on the apple, a thick stream of the molten sugar missed entirely and splashed onto his left thumb.

The pain was instant and unbearable. It felt like his thumb had been set on fire. He screamed and dropped the apple. In a panic, he ran to the sink and turned on the cold water, sticking his thumb underneath. The water sizzled against the sugar, and Max's eyes filled with tears.

His mom came rushing in, followed by his dad. "What happened?!" they asked, wide-eyed.

"I tried… to make a caramel apple," Max managed to say between gasps, holding his thumb under the running water.

They gently peeled away the sticky, cooled caramel, revealing a red, blistered thumb. His mom wrapped it in a cold washcloth, and his dad gave him a sympathetic smile. "You learned the hard way, buddy. That's why they call it *molten* sugar."

Max nodded, biting his lip. It was a very painful lesson indeed.

For the next week, Max walked around with a bandaged thumb, feeling a mix of embarrassment and frustration. He couldn't hold a pencil properly at school, and he had to awkwardly explain to his friends why he had a "mummy thumb."

But after a few days, the pain started to fade, and Max found himself laughing about it with his parents. "I guess caramel apples are better left to the professionals," he joked, wiggling his wrapped-up thumb.

His mom ruffled his hair. "Or you could just learn to be more careful next time."

Max thought about it and then shook his head. "Nah, I'm good. I think I've learned enough about caramel apples for one lifetime."

And so, every time he went to the carnival after that, he'd look at the caramel apples with a grin and say, "I'll pass." Because sometimes the sweetest lessons come with a bit of a sting — and a thumb that never quite forgot it.

(This story -- semi autobiographical -- is donated to the public domain. Wanna see the scar on my left thumb -- 54 years later?)



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Phil Shapiro, pshapiro@his.com

He/Him/His

"Wisdom begins with wonder." - Socrates
"Learning happens thru gentleness."
"We must reinvent a future free of blinders so that we can choose from real options."  David Suzuki

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