I’m not a fan of fruitcake. Maybe it’s the rum or the sheer density of the thing. An absolute brick. For 30 years my mother baked and shipped a fruitcake to special people on her Christmas list. She’d buy candied fruit in colors not naturally possible—yet they were the fruit, the foundation of the fruitcake. The cakes probably weighed 11 pounds once wrapped and ready to mail. I remember Dad lugging a couple of these to the post office. Nowadays I recognized this devotion as love. With both Mom and Dad gone, the fruitcake is a memory touchstone.
Comments are closed.
|
"Classic"
|