Because what we do matters

EDITOR'S NOTE: This blog is very personal. It attempts to explain why my sister, Susanne, and I have created a special charity assortment of chocolates debuting this fall – the Anderson’s Candy Shop Give Back Box. For every one of these special assortments sold we will donate 25% of the proceeds to the Family Health Partnership Clinic of Woodstock, IL. Please read on for more information or visit www.andersonscandyshop.com

I wish I had known about the Family Health Partnership Clinic in 2006. If I had, maybe things would be different.

Six years ago this November, I found out that my mother, Ruth, had breast cancer.

I was 20 years old and home on Thanksgiving Break from Eastern Illinois University. I had come home early intent on surprising everyone. A happy surprise.

Upon sneaking into the house at about 3 a.m., I surprised mom first. She was on her way back to bed from a trip to the bathroom.

What happened next still seems like a dream to me -- unreal.

Even in the dark I could see that she was trying to hide something. And I was horrified when I realized that she was trying to block me from seeing that one of her breasts was triple it’s normal size.

There was a tumor.

She had hidden it well under her everyday clothes but the thin fabric of the nightgowns mom loved to wear could not hide the mass on her chest.

Shock and disbelief hit me first. Then horror, sadness, panic and anger.

Why had she not seen a doctor? How could she have let a likely cancerous growth get so large?

Then there was fear and tears. She might die.

My mother did not have health insurance or a job at that time. She let her condition escalate because she was afraid that if she was diagnosed with cancer before she had health insurance, she would not be able to afford treatment.

My sister, living at home at the time, was 18 years old and struggling to learn what she could to help our mom, but we were limited by our youth and naivety to the intricacies of health care policy and law.

Soon after I discovered mom's tumor, my Dad and his second wife, Tracy, helped my mom get approved for insurance through the State of Illinois. And, eventually, mom underwent a mastectomy, chemotherapy and radiation.

And she beat the cancer. For a while.

Three years later however, on a weekend trip home from my first job out of college, I had to convince mom once again to go to the hospital for treatment.

She had let her state insurance policy lapse because she could not afford to keep up with the payments. She also never got plugged in to a health care facility that helped her stay diligent with followup treatments.

In addition, she fell into a deep depression as one of the side effects of the radiation treatments.

The result -- the cancer was back and it was too late this time.

We learned shortly after mom was admitted to Centegra Hospital - McHenry, that the cancer had spread to her lymphatic system and metastasized her liver.

Five days later she was gone.

Ever since, Susanne and I, although surrounded by many loving and supportive people, have had to struggle with the pain and loss of someone whom we loved so much.

We have also wrestled since then with the thought that something as simple as knowing where clinics existed that helped the uninsured might have altered things; that having better knowledge of how the system works and what resources were available may have changed mom’s decisions and the outcome.

Two years after mom’s death and three years into my career as a journalist at daily newspapers, I thought I had gotten over most of those feelings of grief and regret.

I had written articles about all-consuming house fires, car accidents and other tragedies. But when I stumbled upon an assignment to write a piece about a volunteer at the Family Health Partnership Clinic of Woodstock, Illinois, I found myself suddenly very affected.

I learned about this place -- the clinic -- which provided consultations, medications and treatment to hundreds of McHenry County's uninsured. And I learned about the tireless volunteers there who care for the seemingly unending line of those who come seeking help.

After I interviewed my source,(Mary Lou was her name), I cried.

I cried because I was moved by her generous spirit. I shed tears for the hundreds of others who I imagined might be scared like my mother was. And I cried because I was so happy there were people there to help.

In her time on this earth, my mother taught my sister and I that what you do in this life matters.

And now as we now approach our third holiday season without her, Susanne and I find ourselves in a unique position to do something that we think would make her proud.

As October begins, we are closing in on our first year as full-time employees at the Candy Shop and now have control over several managerial aspects of the business. With that new freedom and power we have decided to create Anderson's first-ever charity-candy box.

Susanne and I have invented the Anderson's Candy Shop Give Back Box, a special chocolate assortment that we are going to sell this winter, in order to raise money for the Family Health Partnership Clinic.

By January, we hope to have raised some money to support the clinic and also hope to have raised awareness in the community to the clinic's cause. We want to help ensure that other families are aware of at least one local option for health care for the uninsured.

For more information about this project you can visit our website at www.andersonscandyshop.com.

Thank you for reading and have a happy and health rest of 2012.

Understanding the real magic

EDITORS NOTE: Today's entry is from my sister Susanne Anderson (pictured at right). She writes about transitioning into a fulltime role at Anderson's Candy Shop and how the move has given her a new perspective on the magic that happens inside 10301 Main Street. I think that the second half of this entry really describes what it feels like when you grow up into a family business.

I’m going to be honest with everyone right now, and it might hurt a little: growing up in a chocolate factory is nothing like what you saw in that Willy Wonka movie.

Ok, ok, it sort of is, but not in the way you might think. There are no chocolate rivers, no psychedelic boat rides and no little people that produce the chocolate – though sometimes, it’s true, we do break out in song.

No, these things don’t exist, but growing up here, it did feel like magic.

Just walking through the cooking room (aptly named, for this is where all of the caramel, cream and other candy centers are cooked) was enchanting.

There was always a cook, whether it was my father, my uncle or one of the various assistant cooks, stirring a huge, boiling batch of sugar turned into something even more delicious.

I didn’t know as a child exactly what everything was, but I loved watching the process. Dad pour boiling sugar out onto a cool marble and somehow – somehow – this turned into the caramels and fudges and peanut butter creams I loved so much.

Then there was the molding room (aptly named, for this is where all of the molded chocolates are made). I often saw my grandmother here, tapping the bubbles out of the chocolate after it had been poured into the bunny rabbit or Christmas tree shaped molds, and then trimming the excess chocolate off of the edges once the chocolate had hardened.

If I brought my friends to this room for a tour they always marveled at the large cylindrical melters holding hundreds of pounds of chocolate.

The packing room (where all of the chocolate pieces get packed into boxes) is probably the closest thing to Willy Wonka that we have. It is an entire room filled with chocolates just waiting to be consumed.

As a child, I didn’t understand the complicated business my elders were part of, but I did know this place was spectacular -- not only because what we made was delicious and unique, but because being here meant family.

The candy store often culminated everything a child could want: loving people making delicious, beautiful treats that you often got to eat.

I am not a child any longer. And over the past year, I have begun to work at the store much more to learn about this place in a new way.

I can now transform those boiling kettles of sugar and make melty chocolate into molded rabbits and snowflakes and more.

And although this means that there isn’t magic here for me anymore, my eyes have been opened to something else. I now see all of the hard work that every employee puts in, and I see the lasting effects of a lifetime of hard work from those before us.

Throughout my entire life, my father has been incredibly passionate about this business and these chocolates and until now, I have not understood how a person can stay so passionate for so long about the same thing.

But, when you are a part of every piece of the process from purchasing supplies to cooking, to packaging and selling – how can a person not become emotionally involved?

And I finally, do understand just how superior our products are. Every caramel batch, for instance, is tested by hand. By hand! That means we don’t just cook our caramels to a certain degree and say, “Eh, they’re good enough.” We test every single batch of candy before it is even completed to make sure our product is the absolute best it can possibly be.

Now I’ve caught myself going into seller mode – but that’s the thing I’ve realized. When my father speaks about the candy shop with such fervor that it sounds like he’s trying to sell one person the whole business, not just a caramel bar, it’s because he so completely believes in what we do here.

And that’s true for all of the people that work here. Now, including me.

We might not have the magic that Willy Wonka has, but we certainly have the same drive and the passion for our trade, and for producing something that will delight others.

Today, when I see my three little brothers here at the candy store, it harkens me back to my childhood and how magical this place can be.

It the dream of all three of my brothers to work at the candy shop when they are older and I hope that one day they can be where I am now, looking at this business not just from the perspective of a child who believes in magic, but from the perspective of an adult who is amazed at learning how much life goes into the production of a small piece of chocolate.

A sweet lesson

Welcome back to Choclate Chat. Today's entry is from fourth-generation candy maker Susanne Anderson. She shares the story of how a mischievous little girl learned how to take care of chocolates.
Like a great piece of candy her story delivers immediate gratificatin and keeps you coming back for more! I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.
Blog editor, Katie Anderson


When I was little – think grade school – my absolute favorite piece of chocolate from the Candy Shop was Buttercream. A thick, moist, vanilla cream that delighted my tongue with a burst of sugar. I ate it only in milk chocolate. Dark chocolate was yucky.

By the time I was in grade school I had become quite a thief. I would sneak around, thinking myself very, very stealthy, and steal little pieces of this and little pieces of that and lots and lots of Buttercreams.

I realize, now, that everyone probably knew and no one probably cared that I taste tested so many ingredients and quality checked so many pieces of chocolate, but at the time I thought I was quite sly.

The hardest things to steal were individual pieces of candy. They were, and still are, kept in blue and red boxes (for dark and milk chocolate),and are stacked four-high in shelves that start about three feet from the ground. Each box can be filled with at least two layers of chocolates and weighs about six pounds when full.

Three feet is not an astronomical height for a shelf. However, when you’re only four feet tall yourself, and you’re pulling a full box out from underneath a bunch of other full boxes, it can get tricky.

Today when I’m in this situation, my mind is fully concentrated on not dropping any of the boxes. When I was young? Well…

On one summer day when I had nothing better to do than engage in my stealth activities, I decided to go for my favorite piece: a Buttercream in milk chocolate. I initiated the usual attack, passing through the packing room, where pieces of chocolate are kept, a few times until the coast was clear and there were no employees in the room. Then I grabbed my chance.

I marched to the shelf that the red box of milk Buttercream sat on and took in the situation. It was the worst possible scenario: Buttercream was at the bottom. Three other boxes sat on top and the stack towered six inches over my head – but I didn’t panic.

I glanced to my left and right to make sure I was still alone and began to hoist the, at least, fifteen pounds of chocolate, up with my left arm. Then I grabbed the Buttercream box with my right hand, slid it from beneath the others and held it while I gently lowered the boxes in my left hand. I was going to get away with it!

But then – my arm lost its balance.

The box wobbled. It hit the packing table. The lid flew off and it all crashed to the floor.

Little chocolate-covered Buttercream pieces strewn everywhere under the packing table, and the shelf of chocolate, and rolling into the hard to reach corners of the room. I didn’t know what to do.

I thought about running and hiding, but I knew someone had to have heard the topple, so I just stood there, staring at the mess of chocolates on the floor.

When I finally came out of the trance it was for my uncle’s voice. He was the last person I wanted to see this. My dad? He would have taken pity on me. Told me it was OK and that next time I just needed to ask for help. He might have even cleaned it up for me. But my Uncle Lars, well, I didn’t think he would be so forgiving. And I was right.

“Well, here,” my uncle said, handing me a few small white boxes that we normally packed wrapping caramels in.

“Pick them up and put them in here. We can’t sell them now, but I don’t want you to throw them away.”

It should be noted that the Buttercream box, at the time of the spill, was completely full.

“You can’t eat anything else until you’re done.”

I spent the next three months eating nothing but milk chocolate Buttercreams. My boxes were kept in the chocolate packing room and everyone knew what happened so unless I wanted to risk another covert mission, I was stuck.

I ate, and ate, and ate Buttercreams.

At first, I tried eating them as fast as I could. I figured that the sooner they were gone, the sooner I could have a Krispy Rice or a Pudding or some Old Tyme Fudge or a chocolate covered pretzel or maybe a Peanut Fritter or anything except Buttercream. The possibilities were endless!

But my boxes of Buttercream were endless, too. And they weighed on me. I dreaded craving chocolate because I knew that the only thing there was to ease the craving was the useless, boring, bland, blah, plain old Buttercreams. And I ate, and ate, and ate the Buttercreams.

Then, one day, there was only one piece left.

I unceremoniously tossed it in the trash and was so excited that I finally got to eat something else that I just stood there staring at the boxes of choices. I had thought about this moment so much and now that it had come, I didn’t know what to pick.

Eventually, my eyes came to rest on Pudding, but not in my usual milk chocolate style. I reached instead for the blue box of dark chocolate Pudding pieces and thought, “Yes, this is it.” With the first chew I was in love. It was bitter and smooth and intense and it was everything that Buttercream was not.

I promised myself then that I would never ever eat another Buttercream.


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Dear Uncle Lars,

This is probably not exactly the way this story happened. However, I was young and this is what my mind has decided happened all those years ago. I’m sorry you’re the villain in this story, but don’t worry, I’ve been very careful ever since.

You’ll also be happy to know that although I didn’t eat another Buttercream for years after this, it is now, again, one of my favorites.

Love, Your niece Susanne