I'll begin this Christmas tale by apologizing to fruitcake lovers. This story is not kind to the fruitcake. In fact, it is an episode of fruitcake abuse. Be forewarned, those who take joy in preparing or eating that most-traditional holiday dessert.
My mother and I shared an odd sense of humor. Many times during her life, we were the only two laughing in a crowded room. One Christmas, Mom, who was not a baker, explained her theory of fruitcake to me.
"Once, years ago, one person baked one fruitcake. That same fruitcake," she said, "has been circulating from house to house all these Christmases. No one likes the fruitcake. No one actually eats the fruitcake. We just give the same piece of fruitcake to each other, year after year."
A few days later, with perfect timing, a kind neighbor gave me a fruitcake as a gift.
While wrapping Mom's present carefully, I decided to add something special. Inside the box that held a fuzzy robe, I hid the fruitcake. When it was discovered, the two of us laughed as the rest of family looked on, puzzled.
Nobody eats fruitcake. Ha ha.
I completely forgot about the fruitcake as the months rolled on. My mom, however, did not. Instead, she froze the block of fruitcake. The following Christmas, while opening gifts from my parents that had arrived in the mail, there, hidden inside a new pair of gift-wrapped shoes, was the same fruitcake. It was a year older, now wrapped in aluminum foil and heavier.
I laughed, froze the fruitcake and waited.
This fruitcake trading, which began as a simple joke between two of like minds, grew. As other relatives were let in on the secret, the cake itself became secondary to the planning of increasingly intricate hiding schemes. One year, the cube of inedible mash was taped to the inside of a new gas grill. The next, it was hung on the tree with other ornaments.
It was always displayed for a couple of days, a brick of foil with a small piece of paper taped to its side displaying the word "fruitcake." The sign, no doubt, was to remind that year's owner to leave this package unopened and in the freezer. Who knew what sort of decomposed state the baked good was in after 10 or so years?
The responsibility of preserving the fruitcake for the next season fell to the gift recipient. It was stored. Plans were begun to find the ultimate hiding place the next year, among the wrapped gifts.
This fruitcake trading went on, as far as I can recall, for a dozen years. While not the most traditional of Christmas acts, it is the one I will remember and take with me to the grave, laughing all the way.
Speaking of which, at my mother's funeral, someone asked whatever happened to that gross, ugly piece of foiled fruitcake.
I'll never tell.
Let's just say I hid it.
Nobody eats fruitcake. Ha ha.
