Bill's Musings

I wrote a couple of years ago about Anne’s penchant for fruitcake, especially at this time of year. Because she is now gluten-free, it’s become more and more difficult to obtain for her. And so the struggle continues.

And yet, fruitcake is a subject that has dogged me much like the velour pants I wore so many years ago. You see, I am not a big fan of fruitcake. And there is a pretty big reason why, although I hesitate to bring it up. But I must. I insist. I must regale you with my reasons for disdain of fruitcake. I caution you, it is not a tale for the weak of heart, and is one which I hope my mother doesn’t read.

My mom has always been a great cook. This much is true. She cooked for all seven of us, and it was always tasty, always comforting, and always gone in a heartbeat. With seven people to feed, you learned early on that if you didn’t eat it up fast, others would grab it. I don’t want to sound like we were pigs at a trough…no no. It’s just that it was every man (pr woman)for himself (or herself), and you had to grab it quickly.

Until the fruitcake came out, that is.

Mom’s fruitcake. For years, I could have sworn that my dad loved it. Maybe he did, although the copious amounts of butter he applied to each and every piece tells me otherwise. She spent what seems like weeks preparing her fruitcake. It was like an assembly line of sorts. When she went into production, you didn’t get in the way. Not even a ringing phone could tear her away from her job.

She tried so hard. And it showed, because her fruitcake was equally as hard. It was dark, weighed a ton, and could kill you if thrown in your direction. We had to break off pieces instead of cutting it, because there wasn’t a knife tough enough to cut it. Ironically, if you ended up with a shard of it, you could use it as a knife, and fend off a wolf-pack with its sharp edge. I once made a fort out of her fruitcakes, using them like bricks. I was able to prevent my brother from getting at me for three days. That was a good year.

I know this really isn’t nice. Especially to my mother, who has been so awesome to me. But someone had to tell her. I wanted to tell her one year, but the only way I might have safely done it was by telegram while I hid somewhere in Alaska. She loved making her fruitcake for us. And we ate itm smiling. Well, mostly smiling, after your gums stopped bleeding.

Mom….I love you like crazy. It’s Christmas, and I sure wish you were here instead of Florida. So when you read this, please think of all the other nice things I’ve done, and maybe you’ll forgive me. And don’t send me any fruitcake if you make any, because it may not make it through customs.

Merry Christmas, everyone!