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a washbasin. Bob Masterson, a thin, quiet 40-year-old with a goatee, glasses and blue apron, squirts caramel out of a funnel onto a breakfast table-sized tray packed with nuts. "Turtles are very popular on Valentine's Day," Martha notes, watching Masterson squat a bit to get a frm stance before plopping more caramel into round clumps. He's been the head candy maker since 1998, one of two connected by friendship, not blood. Te only other nonrelative dates back to the 1920s, when Rudy Muth hired a neighbor to take over candymaking operations. Masterson walks out of the kitchen, past a shiny steel sink, and swings open a squeaky door to the "dipping room," a dressing room of sorts where fllings earn their chocolate wardrobe — some dark, some milk. He sets a tray of turtles on a wooden rack. Two 50-something women in Muth's T-shirts sit on wooden stools, each at a marble slab. Neva Heckel scoops her bare hand into a warm vat of chocolate, dumping a puddle about the size of a dinner plate onto the marble. She then swirls the chocolate, spanks it and repeats. Swirl. Spank. Swirl. Spank. Tis cools the sticky, decadent liquid. Next to her, a tray of square lemon-jelly candy awaits in the pleasant 67-degree room, the perfect temp for dipping, made perfect on this winter day by space heaters. She plucks a square, dips it in her dark brown puddle and plops it on a nearby tray. Her thumb, index and middle fngers pinch together, creating one thin drip of chocolate. She uses it to loop a perfect cursive uppercase "L" on top of the square. Some chocolatiers use spoons to drizzle designs. Most candy companies rely on machines. At Muth's, fngers draw stars, clovers and stripes to help identify the more than 20 diferent chocolates. Only a few employees can do it; Heckel's the best. During the holidays her days can stretch to 14 or 15 hours. Some nights, she'll dream about dripping a capital "B" onto bourbon balls. But she can't imagine working anywhere else. It would be like a divorce. Muth's hired her husband when he got laid of from a construction job. Te entire staf of nine attends all weddings, baby showers and funerals. Swirl. Spank. Swirl. Spank. Heckel's nearly through her tray of lemon-jelly candies. Not one mistake. By the time these candies reach the front of the store, up to six sets of hands will have concocted, decorated and packaged them. When a customer walks in to survey all this handiwork, it's not a buzzer or bell that chimes. It's the ding-dong of a doorbell, just like at home. www.nawbolouisville.org www.shaheens.com www.cellardoorchocolates.com 2.14 LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE 27