Buttermilk Fudge Brownies

1 c. butter or magarine

1/3 c. unsweetened cocoa

2 c. flour

2 c. sugar

1 tsp. Baking soda

½ tsp. Salt

2 beaten eggs

½ c. buttermilk

1 ½ tsp. Vanilla

1. Preheat the oven to 375. Grease a baking sheet and set aside. Put butter, cocoa and 1 c. water in a medium saucepan. Cook over medium high heat until it boils. Stir the mixture constantly as it boils for 3 minutes. Remove from heat.
   
2. In a large mixing bowl, combine flour, sugar, baking soda and salt. Stir in eggs, buttermilk and vanilla. Mix until combined. Add cocoa mixture to the dry mixture and stir together scraping the sides of the bowl.
   
3. Open the oven door and place the greased baking sheet on the flat, opened door. Pour the brownie mixture into the baking sheet and carefully slide the pan onto the oven rack to prevent spilling.
   
4. Bake for 20 minutes. Add the frosting to the brownies as soon as they come out of the oven.
   
5. In a saucepan over medium high heat, combine ¼ c. butter, 3 Tbl. Buttermilk. Cook and stir until boiling. Stir for 3 minutes and remove from heat. Using and electric mixer, beat in 2 ¼ c. powdered sugar. Add ½ tsp. Vanilla and stir until combined. Pour over hot brownies and let cool slightly.
   

Frosting:

¼ c. butter or magarine

3 Tbl. Cocoa

3 Tbl. Buttermilk

2 ¼ c. powdered sugar

½ tsp. vanilla

Elle wonders...

Today, I begin this blog. After at least a year of internal excuses; talking myself down out of the clouds, and off of this ledge. You're really putting yourself out there for review when you write it out. Well, I have just become curious enough to see what "it" will be. What topic or subjects will move me to write here?

I have always been a writer. My first work was my own magic spells, made up of my very own words. At six-years-old, it sounded like magic to me. I tried a few times to turn my brother into a frog. I published them in a discarded red and black plaid diary of my mother's. On the cover, "Personal Diary" was embossed in elegant gold foil script. I ran my fingers over the smooth script and treasured it immediately since it had a precious band that wrapped from the back to a small, thin brass clasp in front that locked with a tiny key. It was delightful for me to lock and unlock it and think of keeping something small and safe of my very own.

When I flipped through the pages and saw light pencil remains too faint to decipher (no matter how hard I tried), I asked my mother about them with an innocent, searching look. She smiled a knowing smile and with a small roll of her eyes let me know that whatever was once written there would never cross her lips. Maybe it was nothing worth talking about. But I wish there had been a lot more talking with my mother; of things that really matter; of things I'm wondering about. As a mother now, I look back and realize that she had just chosen for me to experience whatever was once written on those pages all on my own. Can't help but feel that although I grew up with many blessings and fortunate opportunities I missed something precious.