It's Fruitcake Weather

The holiday season is upon us, and I delight in the memories of my childhood yuletides. One such memory stands out quite clearly. Just before Thanksgiving, November’s blustery winds arrived, weaving frost spider webs onto Mother’s kitchen window. “Oh, my,” she invariably said, staring at their intricate designs, “It’s fruitcake weather! We’ve much to do!” Mother and I bundled up before clambering into our rickety old 1957 station wagon then making our way downtown along slippery, snow-covered streets. We parked in front of the grocery store and scurried toward the front door, the cold air nipping at our faces. I paused letting the magic of the holiday season envelop me and noticed that the air felt like delicate, frozen lace on my skin reminding me of one of my grandmother’s fancy lace doilies. “Are you coming?” Mother asked with urgency in her voice. “Time’s a wastin’!” I shook the sugary snow off my boots and followed Mother inside where she purchased packages of my favorite things: red and green candied cherries, candied pineapple, figs, walnuts, pecans, raisins, dates, and candied citron. Back home in her tiny kitchen, we carefully chopped the nuts, the candied fruits, the dates, and figs, blending them with the heavy batter, and then dumping the glorious mixture into fluted cake and loaf pans. I perched on a kitchen stool and waited, the smell of nutmeg, cinnamon, and dark molasses wafting through the air. Three hours later, the cakes emerged from the oven only to be doused with peach brandy, wrapped in cheesecloth, and then stored in every dark nook and cranny Mother could find. Every few minutes it seemed, I pestered her. “Are they done yet, Mother? Are they?” “No, not yet. Be patient. Homemade fruitcake needs to sit and ripen before it can be eaten. They get better with age.” After what seemed like months (It was really only three or four weeks), she proclaimed, “The fruitcakes are ready for wrapping.” Out came the rolls of wax paper, aluminum foil, ribbon, and the ever-so-sturdy mailing cartons. Having bundled up our packages of cheer, we took them to the post office, entrusting the local mail carriers with their safe delivery. On the way home we dropped off mini versions of Mother’s fruitcakes to neighbors, teachers, and friends then tootled home, warmed with the knowledge we’d brightened the Christmas of friends and family. As my head sank into my pillow that night, it danced with visions of folks unwrapping our gifts; sniffing the cinnamon, cloves, and peach brandy; and eating a slice of our dense, sweet fruitcake topped with a dollop of thick whipped cream. Generally, folks felt blessed when they received one of Mother’s moist, homemade fruitcakes. They were an eagerly anticipated, delicious holiday treat. I’m heartened Mother loved making those fruitcakes, and I’m touched with how thoughtfully she involved me in a decades old family holiday tradition, a tradition I revisit every year when it’s fruitcake weather. Tis the season, For fruitcake. A little bundle of brandy-infused bread Stuffed with candied fruits and nuts. A loaf of indulgence Wrapped in clear plastic Tied off with a bow Ready to be received by those you love most. Tis the season, For fruitcake.