The Birthday Fudge

I asked my seventeen-year-old son what he’d like for dinner on Sunday.

He was going to be gone most of the day, but I told him he could choose the meal.

“Beef Wellington,” he said, without hesitation. “And birthday fudge.”

I nodded slowly. This is what happens when you ask questions you aren’t fully prepared to answer.

He has never been a cheap kid to feed. He ordered lobster in restaurants when he was still in grade school. Now he’s taking a culinary class, and if a recipe sounds complicated, expensive, or slightly intimidating, it immediately earns his attention.

“Have you ever even tried Beef Wellington?” I asked.

“No,” he said cheerfully. “But I’ve always wanted to eat it.”

Challenge accepted.

I hunted down the right cut of meat. I ordered the correct mushrooms. I watched videos. I read instructions. I briefly convinced myself that Gordon Ramsay and I were about to collaborate on something extraordinary—if only he were available for moral support.

Three hours later, after two YouTube tutorials and a kitchen that felt about ten degrees hotter than normal, my daughter and I were beginning to believe we might actually pull this off.

At this point, we were sweaty, determined, and feeling dangerously confident.

“You know what we need?” I told her. “Funk music.”

So we turned on seventies disco—no judgment allowed—and kept moving. When we reached the most delicate part of the process, rolling out the puff pastry, I paused mid-roll and offered a very specific prayer.

“Lord, please bless this puff pastry. Let it roll onto the beef the way it’s supposed to.”

One small miracle later, the Wellington was in the oven.

“You know what would be perfect with this?” I said. “Potatoes from the garden.”

She agreed to peel them, which felt like a gift, until we realized how tiny they were. For reasons unknown to us, our potatoes never grew to full size.

“I hate peeling these little potatoes,” she said as one went flying across the kitchen, disco music still blaring. “They’re impossible to hold onto. My hand is going to be permanently stuck in a potato-peeling position.”

Still, she didn’t quit. Twenty minutes later, we had a respectable pile of peeled miniature potatoes and a shared sense of victory.

Dinner was worth it.

The Wellington turned out beautifully. The potatoes were perfect. As I sat at the table watching my son enjoy his meal, something quiet and deep settled in my chest—gratitude, pure and simple.

And then a thought came to me.

What would it have been like to have Jesus sit at your table?

He loved a good meal. He lingered at tables. He taught between bites and laughter. It must have been something extraordinary to sit there, listening to Him speak, surrounded by food and fellowship.

Would He have liked Beef Wellington? Birthday fudge?

What would I say to Him if He were here? What would I ask?

We cleared the table and cleaned the kitchen, the day winding down the way good days do. And I found myself quietly looking forward to the day I’ll sit at His table—face to face, no distractions, no rushing.

And who knows.

Maybe there will even be birthday fudge.