This is it. Fruitcake weather. It’s nippy outside, even in South Florida the temperatures have dipped down into the fifties at night… Christmas has arrived….and the wait is over!(Drum roll, please!) The food memory? Well, imagine a little girl with 2 pigtails and a curly headed little boy (my brother Bill) ready for the long trip huddled together (both with feet dangling from the same seat) on a Greyhound bus with my Great-Grandmama Emma, (our chaperone) to Chattanooga, Tennessee. The bus driver calls out the cities, ” Jacksonville, Macon, Atlanta, Chattanooga and all points northeast…” with that our bus backed out and headed towards I- 95, then on to I- 75. Meanwhile me and Billy with our array of coloring crayons colored in our coloring books sit quietly engaged in drawing and playing–Billy, with his tiny toy trucks, and me with my paper doll books (remember those?) anxiously waiting for the veritable feast of fried chicken, deviled eggs, and Christmas cookies in tins. But, the most anticipated thing was wrapped in layers of foil in a special cake tin—fruitcake! Ahhhhh!
With that memory….all I can say is….I’ve never forgotten the contented feeling of looking through the frosty window on the bus, perfumed with the best fried chicken and fruitcake ever made… and I can still see Grandma Emma’s smile as she gave us the smallest piece of soaked rum fruitcake…It was a satisfying smile of the greatness of that hidden treasure like finding some forbidden jewel with its sweet cherries, nuts, and spices. The time involved in its preparation…the waiting for days, weeks, and months until the cake (marinating in liqueurs) adding to our anticipation and culminating in that tiny slice of goodness. The bottom line? This memory sealed my fate (and my brother’s) as lovers of fruitcake–forever, without regrets!
So, does my son like fruitcake? Of course. The memory’s different but, the anticipation is the same. My mother loves fruitcake, too. It’s her favorite cake….and we’ve got hers packed and ready to go…Fruitcake’s the reason why I’m up late tonight…Nick’s had enough of reminding me whether I’ve spritzed the cake. All anticipation crescendos to an inevitable question, “Mom, do you think it’s ready, yet? Then, “can we cut it now?” Then finally, “are you sure?” My answer?… “Yes, it’s ready!”
Welcome to the holidays, y’all. It’s fruitcake time! This one is my best one yet (I say that every year)…Nick’s response? “It’s real good, Mom… He’s said that several times while eating it…My response? Grandma’s same smile of satisfaction…
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Cheryl’s Butter Bakes fruitcake 2018. Full of my own candied cherries, pineapples, ginger, apricots, raisins, walnuts, and pecans. Soaked with bourbon and dark rum….I just love this time of year. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!
Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities begins with these infamous lines…”It was the best of times. It was the worst of times…” One hundred sixty-three years since its publication, we are living in the 3rd year of a global pandemic, “with no in-between times.” in sight. Yet, our family found time for celebration. On October 17, 2021, my grandmother turned 100 years old. For a brief moment, in the midst of global chaos, we found joy. No, rather, “joy” found us. Grandma Ruth, is the center of that joy. She is the calm in the midst of a storm and no matter the season we all find ourselves in, we celebrate her. We celebrate, and we remember for there are “no in-between times. There simply, “is.”
Her birthday colors were rose pink, black and gold. We’d planned an outside car parade complete with balloons, party hats, a Saturday birthday luncheon at a seafood restaurant on the river in Daytona Beach, followed by a birthday dinner, and culminating with celebration cake aptly suited for the occasion. The cake was a yellow layered cake with luscious milk chocolate buttercream that tasted sublime. It was studded with toasted Georgia pecans and adorned with white chocolate dipped strawberries and fondant white sprinkles.
Her birthday cake was an homage to Grandma’s Chocolate cakes throughout the years. Every year we looked forward to one of her huge 3 layer yellow cakes with chocolate icing strewn with pecan halves all over it. Never mind the fact that her cakes were traditionally, a Duncan Hines box cake (canned icing and all). Her cakes were always richly made with butter despite being boxed cakes. Those cakes literally melted in your mouth. She always noted, ” Well, it’s just a box cake ’cause you know, Grandma, ain’t no good at making homemade cakes.” In her mind, it was her downfall–to us, that cake was nirvana. It was what made every celebration complete whether it was Easter, Anniversary, Wedding, or a birthday but especially, Christmas. It sat inside a vintage cake dome on the center of the dining room table along side a huge silver tray of every fruit imaginable. Encircled by every kind of shelled nut, Brazil, walnut, pecans, hazelnuts. Next to a pan of pecan brownies and stacked boxes of Krispy Kreme Donuts. Despite all that–the chocolate iced, yellow cake and pecans, always took center stage at her house during the holidays.
Everyone fondly remembers those cakes. Grandma would always add: “there’s Neopolitan ice cream in the freezer.” We all knew the tradition. Her birthday would be a reminder of those days. Except today was different. Today, this chocolate cake had a unique feature which read: “Happy 100th Birthday!” This cake was a rich homemade, buttery, confection (nothing boxed here). The chocolate buttercream was oozing with pure chocolate goodness. It tasted like the richest candy bar studded with chunks of the sweetest, Georgia pecans. Despite being a hot in-climate day (it’s mid October), the icing grew increasingly warm and soft in this summer-like weather.
We all delighted in this pinnacle event and in Grandma’s physical presence. She’d made it to be 100 years old.100 years old. I held my breath that she would make it to this day for she (like her cake) is only slightly like her “familiar self.” Now, she’s bolder, more humorous, yet, more outspoken than ever before. She maintains a high degree of etiquette but, will “speak her mind” (as we say in the South) when necessary. After dinner she asked: “so is there any dessert?” When told her there would be dessert for her birthday she politely responded with a thoughtful, “ohhh, because dinner should always end with a dessert” she hinted. And later, she said to me, ” now, may I have another piece of cake and another scoop of ice cream?” I then reminded her, that she’d already had 2 scoops of ice cream to which she responded, “well, can I have another?” I smiled, and gave her another “child’s portion” of delicious strawberry and cream ice cream and another small sliver of cake ( because Grandma’s had a history of diabetes which has subsided in her older years).
The most humorous memory was the picture my sister, Carla, tried to stage of Grandma Ruth “helping me cut the cake.” My sister instructed Grandma to place her hand next to mine on the serving knife while simultaneously, looking towards the camera (and away from the cake). Grandma responded, “okay, hold the knife, and smile, right?” Carla, responded, “yes, now look at me, Grandma.” She repeated, “Grandma look at me.” Carla, meant for her to look towards the camera (in the opposite direction of the cake) which was totally illogical to Grandma. After 2 or 3 failed tries, we attempted a 1-2-3 count down-still failing. None of this made sense to Grandma Ruth. Why hold the knife and look away from the cake? She rationalized, “shouldn’t I be looking here?” she asked. Frowning, Grandma, persisted, “but, the cake is over here” she pointed towards the cake and away from the camera, growing irritated with all of us. We all responded, “nooooo, just hold the knife, pretend to cut the cake and smile towards the camera!” She let out a huge sigh, and responded, “okay, hold the knife, look at Carla and smile, right?” Again, we gave her a 1-2-3 countdown. On “3” she was to smile at the camera. Finally, in resignation, she turned towards the camera, gritted her teeth into a phony smile ( as if to say, “arggggg!”) and Carla snapped the photo. That photo ended up being the one the mayor of Daytona Beach posted on his official page honoring Grandma. It was the most hilarious picture as I’m caught looking crossed-eyed (about the explode in laughter at the ridiculousness of the entire scene). As Carla snapped the photo, we all (except Grandma who was “over it” and all of us) roared with laughter! It is a scene I’ll never forget because despite her dementia, Grandma was using reasoning at how illogical it was to have her to pretend to cut the cake yet, look away from it.
Memories are like rain, they come down like a sweltering, summer shower. But, sometimes they pour down like a heavy storm. At times, you get swept up in their essence. At times, you never understand how precious they are at the time they’re gone You can never “unlive” them. You can never re-live them. You can never retract them. However, you can conveniently or inconveniently, forget them like a word that’s forgotten but, resides on the tip of our tongue.. The fault is in ourselves…not the day or the hour. There are no in-between times. Like the Africans believe about “the state of being”, and the verb, “to be” you either, are or you are not present. Will be, was or would have been is non-sensical to a “state of being.” And so, Grandma’s 100th birthday is for us “the best of times.”
“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”-HENRY DAVID THOREAU
These words by Thoreau are transcendent. In 2019, I’d reached the point where I couldn’t take it anymore and retired. The continual stresses of life had become insurmountable. And so, I left education but, the profundity of Thoreau and Emerson’s teachings never left me and hopefully, never left my students. So, today, I find myself on the other side of that simple life having gone through its ups and downs. We all have a story. I wouldn’t be the person I am today without the experiences which are unique to me. I am now figuratively walking in the “woods” that Thoreau talked about that I once lectured to my students about but, knew I really wasn’t living. Every time I taught it I knew I was methodically, doing what I had to do rather than what I wanted to do. There are parts of life that despite how passionately you live it can become mundane. Now, before I go on you may be thinking, I thought this was a food memory blog, so, where’s the connection? I’ll connect it all–no worries.
I was always determined to teach Emerson and Thoreau each year despite its challenges. It was a sub-unit in Romanticism, known as Transcendentalism. It is however, difficult to teach 11th graders, since they still can be immature at 16 year old. Remember age 16? I do. My 16 year old birthday party was infamous! My best friend, Shelley and I had planned every last detail. Everyone from both high schools was there! I grew up in the 70’s. It was the age of “house” parties. People were packed in my grandmother’s living room, spilling out the front door all the way down the long sidewalk of the apartments while the music from Kool and the Gang; Bootsy Collins, and The Ohio Players blasted into the streets. The night of my party our biggest challenge was how long we could turn down the lights before Mama and Grandma found out while someone quickly changed the music from disco to a slow dance R&B song. Guys instinctively grabbed their favorite girl to get in a rhythmic hard grind or two before the lights were turned back on by the watchful eyes of my mother and grandmother.
When on summer vacation in Tennessee we went to our weekly Sunday night hangout at the local skating rink with its black lights, disco ball and a DJ on the mic. The crowds of cars surrounded the building. Our Dad would drop us off and sternly say: “Be outside by 11 p.m. or else! You got that, Billy?!” My brother was never on time. I think he lived to defy curfew orders. In the 70’s we were still trying to hang on to the hippie generation of the 60’s. My favorite outfit was a pair of wide leg hip hugger bell bottom jeans, mid-drift tube top accessorized by a pucca shelled necklace and a mood ring on your index finger. I loved my wide leg jeans so much that Daddy discussed throwing them away–something I wasn’t going to tolerate without a good verbal argument on my freedom to wear what I wanted! My jeans and my afro were the bane of my father’s existence during this time. Both were my silent rebellion against authority. In fact, I don’t know which Daddy hated more, the afro or the jeans. Eventually, my jeans mysteriously disappeared one day. I always thought either my brother or Daddy threw them in the trash. I never saw them again! If I broached the subject Daddy and Bill would look at each other, shrug their shoulders, mutter something and drop the subject. They took that secret with them to the grave!
As teens we watched “Laugh In,” Good Times, Sanford and Sons and “Bewitched” on television. Then there were variety shows like Carol Burnett and Flip Wilson with his memorable character, “Geraldine” instigating antics and ending her skit with: “You betta watch out now, sucker! and “The devil made me do it!” My father always ended each day with a nightly dose of “The Late Show” starring Johnny Carson’s monologue.
We grew up in an age of meatloaf, mashed potatoes and canned English peas. Sunday dinners were turkey wings or baked chicken, collard greens, dressing and gravy. On weekends my best friend, Jane and I would walk to the local Dairy Queen in Daytona Beach, and devour a strawberry shake, a chili dog and fries while laughing about boys (who liked who) etc. When I’d come home from school Grandma Ruth would surprise me with a peach cobbler, or bread pudding for dessert, homemade biscuits baking in the oven, while fried chicken was frying in a black cast iron skillet on the stove. Life was simple. It was as good as it gets because what could be better than one of my grandma’s hot biscuits with a side of strawberry jam and butter? Whether I was in Florida or Tennessee, life centered around food.
However, food was more than sustenance. Baking and cooking have taught me patience. I still hate the lessons patience has to teach–and I’m still learning. For example, what does it really mean to live deliberately? Well, with intention–contemplatively, yet, intentionally. It’s a difficult thing to do. For it requires scrutiny and the right balance. Think about it, but, not too long, or it’ll lead to procrastination. That’s what happened to Thoreau in “Walden.” He went to the woods to think about his path in life. Ironically, he found that when he went to the woods he recreated that same “path” he’d been on.
As for me and my teaching career, I’d “mastered” my subjects. Whether it was in the field of law or literature. Whether at the post graduate level or secondary education. I had done what I had to do to survive it all. I felt I just couldn’t teach anymore–not another research paper, not another essay, not another unmotivated child. Educating and inspiring someone else’s child is (to say the least)– exhausting. You can’t do it without sacrificing a bit of yourself each time. And if it consumes you–if it takes your sleep or whatever, I found that you will either be left on the teaching battlefield for dead, eventually, or you’ll throw in the towel and walk away. I chose the later.
I recognize that at the end of the day education is a business. A service you give and others will take and take and take with only a scattering of rewards–if any–often without even a thank you in return. The better you are at doing the job–the more the people will take. I realized that in the end if I dropped dead from exhaustion the next day a substitute teacher would be in my place for however long, and well, “the beat [would] go on” (to paraphrase Sonny and Cher’s song). It was up to me to save myself from the consequences Thoreau warned about. So, for the first time in a long time I made myself a priority –no goodbyes, or retirement cake necessary.
I’d had this lesson in life shown to me by my own father. He gave his all to coaching and teaching children. He never got a summer vacation and lived meagerly off of a teacher’s salary. Bologna and pottage meat sandwiches were our summer’s diet along with left over lunches from the free lunch summer school recreation program Dad supervised. My dad ended up with heart blockages, heart surgeries and eventually died from a poor man’s diet. He was another stressed out teacher and I saw his path inevitably, as my own. So, while walking away is difficult — sometimes it’s necessary. When I could leave responsibly, I left to go find the person I’d left behind. I just didn’t want to become the person Thoreau talked about–to find out at the end of life, I had not lived.
The end will come to all of us whether or not we’re ready. The end may take us by surprise or with knowledge of our impending conclusion. While on this journey called life I have to be careful not to walk in someone else’s path or recreate the path that I just left. Subconsciously, that too, can happen–easily, because it’s habitual. But, remembering what really, truly are essentials–well, that’s the challenge. Society still tugs at you. Family tugs at you too, to live the way they want you to live. But, that’s what I’d always done for so long. It can leave you flailing, this way or that way, in the wind. And still–you’ll never be the darling of their eye so, you might as well, chuck it and live the life you want to live. When you find it–you’ll know. Just don’t give too much of yourself because it’ll never be enough. I know now, that people can be selfish and will take as much of you as you’re willing to give–they’ll do it politely, incrementally, discretely, circuitously, craftily, but nevertheless, intently. Know for yourself what’s essential and not what someone else thinks is essential. Make sure that the path you’re on is the path for you because walking in someone else’s path is impossible unless you share the same purpose (which you don’t). Finally, since retiring (I say with a sigh) I have the time to reflect. I can take the time to put my finger in the wind, in search of deliberateness.
And so you live on through your art work from which you toiled over and conceptualized only in your darkest moments. To create such beauty when you were feeling your lowest is amazing. I had such conversations between us about your art work. Many people know your work as: “quiet like thunder” but, don’t know that you shared that name with me one summer day while walking down Oak Street in Daytona. Neither does the family know that you would coincidentally name your “angel” collection as a group with no distinguishable titles–just a collection (it was your usual practice to name each of your art pieces distinctly).
We had conversations about that–but, I never told you how ominous I thought it was that you would choose angels as your subject. “Were they people you’ve known?” I asked. “No, just faces I see” you responded. I thought the entire subject matter you’d chosen to be odd and spent most of our walk in silent contemplation processing the idea of angels. Now, you’re gone and all we have are these art pieces. You and I are unique as brother and sister because we were born 1 day shy of being a year apart. With your birthday preceding mine on the 23rd, now, I must live with your death as a prelude to my own birthday tomorrow. I can’t bring myself to say the usual trite words that most people leave on days such as this.
Before your death your birthday was always a happy reminder and joke between us as the one day in which we were the same age (until the next day when I’d once again be 1 yr older than you). I always looked forward to you asking your over 5K facebook friends to wish me (your sister) Happy Birthday because you knew I only have a few loyal, close family and friends who’d even bother to say Happy birthday to me tomorrow.
Since your death I can’t even bring myself to say, “I miss you.” The words seem so “small” when compared to the depth of our emptiness since you left. On a day like this all I can say is that you were the best brother a sister could have wished for. You were protective, insightful, yet, funny, and, at the same time, so much like your body of art work, “quiet like thunder.”
Today, started out sort of “off-kilter.” I was up making this sour dough multi-grain bread (picture below) and couldn’t find my dough hook to my treasured Kitchen Aid mixer (I still can’t find it). Then, at 3: 20 a.m. this morning, the cable went off due to technical work being done in our area until 10 a.m. Everything just seemed a bit off today. In the end, I had to knead my bread manually and eventually, as soon as I called the cable company and told them I still didn’t have service–the t.v. came on! I guess it was all just as well. It kept me from thinking about missing you so much. So, my posting this copy of your first angel is befitting. She’s looking down, above it all, contemplating the enormity of this universe.
I will close this post with Sonnet #18 by Shakespeare which speaks about art’s perpetuity and the significance of dying before your time: “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date; Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm’d; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d; But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st; Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee”.
Everyone gets a “hankerin'” for a simple cookie known as “Nilla Wafers” but years ago they were called Vanilla Wafers until Nabisco removed the vanilla extract (too costly), as a result, they shortened the name to Nilla Wafers. Over the years the taste of this classic cookie has become less flavorful and smaller in size; yet, the price hasn’t gone down! Years ago there was a Nabisco plant in the suburbs on the outskirts of “H-town” (Houston). Whenever I’d drive by it I’d try to guess which cookie smells were wafting in the air. Fig Newton? or Nilla wafers? Hmmm….I still remember the sweet, flavorful aroma of those cookies.
However, my best memory (as a kid) was looking in the fridge and seeing a big bowl of banana pudding filled with Nilla Wafers! My grandmother would surprise us with such a treat from time to time for Sunday dinner. She’d save me a bowl (freshly made and un-refrigerated while the pudding was still warm) because she knew that was my favorite way to eat the dessert. My second best way to enjoy this dessert was once the cookies and pudding had settled and gotten all soft. In my family the cookies were everyone’s favorite. Most people enjoy it the day it’s made. My preference, (once it’s refrigerated) is to eat it the day after it’s made when the cookies have become cake-like in texture from macerating in all that banana pudding goodness!
So, lately, I’ve been reminiscing about those old Nilla wafer cookies now that the boxed version is more akin to cardboard than the cookies I remember. I decided to make my own. I think I have the perfect cookie recipe that produces a cookie which is crispy around the edges and has a semi-soft center to ultimately become that “cake-like” texture I remembered. These cookies are simply perfection and mine have my own artisan vanilla extract in them.
The next test is to see how these beauties hold up in a banana pudding! Now, that will be the ultimate indicator of success!
Sometimes when life throws you a pandemic–you stay in place by making your own recipe for the ultimate chunky chocolate chip cookie! Because well, there’s nothing better than a good chocolate chip cookie when the walls of your house seem to be closing in on you, and it’s raining cats and dogs outside in South Florida. So, I’ve been on this challenge to figure out how to make a better chocolate chip cookie. After contemplating this small feat I’ve settled on a more upscale version with macadamia nuts, pecans, walnuts, Valrhona chocolate chunks and Guittard semi-sweet chocolate chips–“Yum!” I think they’re “bougie” (or hipster or yuppie–take your choice of adjective). They are definitely a little “foo-foo” with only the best chocolate (Valrhona and Guittard) –a long way from the Chips A’hoy version (in that familiar sky blue packaging) that I grew up eating.
Every Saturday when Mama shopped for groceries inevitably there were Chocolate chip cookies (the extra large package) in the cart. They were Daddy’s preference. My parents should have purchased stock in Nabisco for all the cookies we bought from them over the years during my childhood (everything from pinwheels to shortbread cookies). If Nabisco made it–we bought it…often.
So, here’s my version of chocolate chip cookies. I call them “Chunky Chocolate Chip” cookies because of the whole nuts I used (no pecan dust here).
p.s. I know it’s been a long time since I’ve posted but, sometimes life gets in the way and well, when you are making a major career move (retiring from education) you step away and take a little time to re-focus on yourself. I hear thunder….more rain’s a comin’–look for more posts now that I’m free!
Much of what and who we are is shaped by our past. I really want to write about this luscious pineapple upside down cake I made at 1 a.m. early this morning. I wanted to write you about how Grandma Ruth would bake one in an old 12 inch cast iron skillet seasoned from years of fried chicken, and pork chops…. How I’d come through the back door (after school) surrounded by the yellow walls of her tiny kitchen. Then being enveloped by the glorious smells of gooey dark brown sugar, butter and golden canned Dole pineapples (yes, I’m name dropping here–they are the best short of fresh pineapples!). I wanted to write admitting my love for the overly sweet maraschino cherries (the jumbo ones, please)…..about how most people hate their cloying sweet taste and, honestly, how I could mindlessly snack on the entire little jar.
I wanted to tell you these things–I really did and well, I could still tell you all these things (and more) but, I can’t get around the fact that when I told Grandma about how I got my love of the pineapple upside down cake from her baking them. She couldn’t recall any of it. Not one memory. Nothing. All she could do was live in that moment in time. Right then. Me and her on the phone while Mom’s showing her the photo (I’ve posted below). She was telling me her opinion of me as a baker but, I wanted her to recognize who gave me that inspiration. Dementia’s seemed to have had the last laugh. She couldn’t recall ever making a pineapple upside down cake, or the recipe she used on the back of the Swan cake flour box….or her standing at the stove top stirring the molasses brown sugar and butter or the pineapple rings (as I waited for her to leave me at least one from the bottom of the can) or her skillfully, flipping the heavy cast iron pan onto the dinner plate that donned the finished cake. Dementia has done that.
It was the thief in the night that stole it all….no more sharing cooking tidbits like don’t let the topping stay on the bottom of the pan for a long time without immediately flipping the plate or it will stick to the pan. Dementia– with it’s cruel intentions against memory and time and the back and forth of conversation…has taken it. It has taken her concern for the future. It has taken what little is left of the transitory present, leaping its way into the past as soon as the moment is gone. It’s quite cyclical but, instructional. It’s how we should all live our lives–in the moment– in the present and then, whether good or bad just let it go.
But, I do recall, although I know she can’t remember…I tell her–not for her benefit, but for my benefit. I need to recall it all as dementia continues to have its way with her. Is it my way of saying thank you, Grandma, for all you’ve done for me? Is it my way of giving her her flowers while she’s living? Or, is it my way of connecting with her with whatever is left of her memories? Yet, she still knows us. She can still give some damn good advice–and she still fries the best chicken in the whole world…Yes, maybe, it’s all of these reasons. And maybe, since she’s unable to make connections we become the keeper of her memories. It is the least we can do for a woman who has done so much for all of us.
Grandma Ruth’s cake came from the basic 1-2-3-4 cake recipe (yes, the one on the back of the Swan cake flour box and all I can add to this memory is that I’m just thankful she’s still with us. My family approaches tomorrow (the first year without my brother on Father’s Day) as a grim reminder of who’s no longer on this earth and my grandmother is that necessary link. We need her nurturing kindness which dementia didn’t take and while her memories are void of knowing any details of her first husband of 36 years, or that her son is dead (for almost 20 years) or the inevitable question of where she put her pocket book.
One moment please, about THAT pocketbook. Once an important item…now housing random items that lay in its lining like trash strewn on the side of the road such as chewing gum balled up paper towels with an old biscuit and a checkbook she’s found from a now, defunct account. The pocketbook takes its place among the lost but never found of forgotten memories. Listening to my grandmother on the phone my mind is flooded with memories of a time in my childhood when she went through the same thing with her mother. It’s all so deja vu–just a different person–and a different time (but you thought this would be a blog about cake!)
The best is yet to come…I always look for ways to kick up a recipe…and this one is it! My cheese stuffed French rolls made with sharp cheddar and parmesan cheese is the hit of a party! I could also imagine these with a side dip of tomato jam, stuffed with ham and cheese, pepperoni and smoked provolone cheese or garlic and onion with a side of cream cheese. Yum, yum, yum…Cheryl’s Butter Bakes is the best!
Fruitcake is a special cake in my family. I don’t know why other people don’t like it except, well, maybe, they’ve had some awful tasting fruitcake in their day. I grew up with a great grandmother who made delicious fruitcakes! Despite it being soaked in wine and rum, as children we couldn’t wait for her to unwrap the foil paper and slice us a piece of the fruitcake filled with cherries and nuts!
Now, as a teacher, it’s an endeavor to tackle making a fruitcake because it’s so labor intensive. It exhausts me so much that I take a break every few years before making it again. There’s a lot of preparation such as buying all the nuts, fruits, then prepping them, etc. I mean you really have to want fruitcake to make it. And it’s expensive to make but, this year I bought a dehydrator and processed my own fruit then I glazed it! I was able to catch a sale on canned pineapples (name-brand only, please) so, that made it cheaper. And I don’t like other strange fruits in my fruitcake, like blueberries. Who came up with the idea of blueberries in a fruitcake? I’m sorry, I like blueberries but, no blueberries in my fruitcake– just pineapples, candied ginger, Maraschino cherries, walnuts and pecans in mine. That’s it.
So, it’s been a few years since I made one but, at my brother’s insistence (who lived in Houston, Texas) he’d put a “bug in my ear” earlier this year to make him a fruitcake. However, he died in late October of a brain aneurysm. His unexpected death has reeled this family. I really am trying to find my Christmas spirit (now more than ever). I had been gathering up walnuts, and pecans worse than some old squirrel getting ready for winter but, I wouldn’t announce to anyone that I was going to actually make fruitcake (just in case I had a change of heart). Folks in this family salivate at the thought of fruitcake. They make hints like, “I sure do love a good fruitcake” or “my favorite cake is a fruitcake.” When I’d hear such comments I’d just acknowledge them with my silence. As a baker I’m going over the recipe in my head and each time I’m thinking whether I have enough rum or butter just in case but, all the time I was getting myself ready to make fruitcake. I mean can I really do this, now, after everything?
I’ll admit I’ve spent a lot of time rationalizing. For example, we administered midterms this past Friday (2 days before Christmas) and I really should have baked this cake back in October but, during that time the family was dealing with Bill’s death with two memorial services in 2 different states. The last thing on my mind was fruitcake! The last cake I’d baked for my brother was a fruitcake. I’d shipped it to him and it was lost in the mail. My fantastic fruitcake –lost in the mail. Well, after 4 months I traced it. It was sitting on a shelf in some local mail room in some small town on the outskirts of Houston, Texas! They returned it to me and it was stale because you have to soak or spritz it with wine, rum or brandy. And then, fruitcake needs the time to mature and settle after it’s baked. Macerating the fruits adds depth of flavor. Baking this cake now at Christmas wouldn’t allow for any flavor intensity to develop. I’d wavered the points until finally, the truth is I needed to make this cake now, more than ever. Not for its potential but, I needed to focus on something other than the loss of someone so close.
We were only 1 day shy of being a year apart in age (his birthday is the day before mine) and then 1 day out of the year we are the same age! It was a running joke between us. I promised him a fruitcake this year. Whether he’s physically present or not–this fruitcake is for Bill. Well, I got through it without any tears until I put the last of those glazed green cherries on the first cake (I actually made 3 cakes). When I finished decorating it I got it ready for it’s “beauty picture.” The photos were lovely. Even though it was 11 p.m. when I finished that first cake. I put a lovely red bow on the top of it just as if I were going to ship it to him. In my mind it was the cake I would have sent him. This was his fruitcake that he’d asked for way back in late spring of 2017 before I was even thinking about fruitcake–he was thinking about it.
As I snapped the photos of the cake and saw its glistening colors–I knew I’d made the right choice to make it regardless of circumstances–even Bill’s death. He would want me to do it and he would say something like, ” go on, Sis–make that cake, now.” His “now” wouldn’t have been a demand but, an urging to go ahead regardless. Make it. And so, I did–on Christmas Eve concentrating only on that task yet, holding back emotions until it was done. When I finished making all three cakes–it was as if I’d finished some overwhelming project. It was after all, just a cake, I know. But, to me, it was a promise kept. One of the last between this brother and sister. So, why bother making a fruitcake? Because, when you are grieving over the loss of your best friend–your brother, making a fruitcake will save you from thinking about your first Christmas without him.
My brother, Bill and me on summer vacation enjoying a slice of watermelon in Daytona Beach at Grandma and Granddaddy’s house.
I’ll be honest with you…wedding cookies weren’t on my horizon today but, it’s Christmas and not matter what–people get married around this time of year. Maybe, a wedding isn’t even a thought–so, why not make Kourabiedes Greek cookies? These have my own spin on them though. Made with my pure artisan vanilla extract and Amaretto liqueur. I had to kick them up with some sweet southern pecans and then some English walnuts in some. I am having one with some of my own apple wine. So, no wedding? No problem. If you’d like to place an order please let me know. We do ship.
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