Jump to content

Menu

Fruitcake Drama (in two acts)


Halftime Hope
 Share

Recommended Posts

I.

 

The last couple of weeks have been crazy because I have a sick doggie that needed to go potty several times a night: sleep deprivation when one is 50 is not a pretty sight, but we managed to get through the end of the semester without too much carnage. Macbeth was the biggest loser: viewed through the dual lenses of my sleep deprivation and the 17 year old’s pragmatism, “out, out damned spot†was an invitation to mirth, and the dubstep version of “double, double toil and trouble†had surprising charm!

 

Last Saturday evening dd returned home (she's a junior in college and we miss her terribly), and since then things have really started hopping. Among them was Dog #2, who had unexpected knee surgery (repairing both a patella and an ACL) on Tuesday; at least someone is home now to be with him at all times to keep him off his feet, tiny maniac that he is. He is now past the worst, initial 48 hours, but it is a chore to keep him off that leg. I’ve threatened him with the crate, a word he seems to remember since it produces an immediate slinking retreat to his doggie bed.

 

Fast forward to Wednesday night:

 

Dd is awesome about helping in the kitchen, so we consulted and decided to attempt The Norwegian Fruitcake, the recipe with ingredients that most grocery stores don’t sell anymore. It’s my grandmother's recipe which my parents dearly love, but I've never made it or even seen it made—grandma magic. My elderly mom hasn't felt like baking in the past 20 years or so--living in south FL with no A/C will do that to you. I know the fruitcake will be a huge hit after these many years without it. If we can just get it made and mailed, it can sit for three weeks per the instructions, and they can eat it by Epiphany. Late fruitcake is better than none....I think.

 

After supper we began, standing in the kitchen zesting lemons and oranges, chopping pecans, flouring and chopping the stickiest dates and figs on the planet, and plumping the raisins. We marveled at how much better the horrid-colored fruit mix looks with a sprinkling of flour on it: the “light dusting of snow†effect is wondrously universal. I moved on to the egg beating, and as I watched in alarm, wondering if all 12 stiffly beaten egg whites would overflow the biggest mixer bowl, dd piped up. If she applied the logic from Legally Blonde and wanted to wash her hair before the weekend festivities, says she, this would have to be Hair Coloring Night. OK, then. We're women--we can juggle timers for the oven and for her hair without too much trouble if we can get the loaf pans with fruitcake safely tucked into the oven first.

 

A bit later, as I was finally mixing the batter and adding the fruit, dd got out the rubber gloves and laid trash towels on the laundry room floor to protect against hair dye splatter. Meanwhile, I kept switching to bigger bowls, because this was turning out to be a surprisingly massive recipe. I looked for instructions for the number of pans, but “grease and flour the brown paper†were the only words on the back side of the recipe; I hadn’t seen them earlier. Apparently these gems have to be lined with brown paper. Gahh! I frantically cut up the only two paper grocery sacks I own, engineering the corners and hoping the tiny bit of Crisco in my pantry will hold out. My mother, the 84 year old with perfect smell, would not appreciate fruitcake greased and floured with coconut oil.

 

I began spooning the chunky batter into the pans, and soon all four of the loaf pans were full. I considered getting dh up to ask him if he can release the two bread pans he had appropriated for use in the garage, but I decided against it, as sleeping husbands are best left sleeping. Dd saw how much batter was left, and she gamely started laying pans--any pans--on the counter. And the parchment paper. When dd said that she wasn’t Archimedes and would not be lining the tube pan, I didn’t argue, but I did make a quick wish for the Non-stickiness Fairy to make an unscheduled stop at our house. After the tube pan, there was still more batter. Another 8x10 pan. Still more batter. Finally another 8x8, and we were done: four loaf pans, a tube pan, an 8x8, and an 8x10. I wondered how it would all fit in the oven, but it did. Thank goodness it required baking at 300 degrees, in a relatively slow oven, so the oven stood a chance of keeping up.

 

II.

 

We partitioned dd’s hair, pinned a towel around her neck, and I mixed the two bottles of goop. The initial 30 minute oven timer went off, we turned down the oven to 275 degrees per the recipe and, smiling with satisfaction, I began applying the hair dye. I finished one section of her hair, and while I was rinsing my gloved hands, ds came into the laundry room, reached to turn off the water so I could hear him, and said, "Dad needs you; he's sick."

 

With that lovely news, I figured I can spare a minute between sections. Grabbing a big plastic bowl for the sickie, I breathed a prayer for calm. It struck me I should be thankful that we needed a plastic bowl, as every large glass or metal bowl in the entire kitchen was in the sink waiting for the elves to work their cleanup magic. Sure enough, dh was at our bathroom sink, recovering. After making appropriate clucking compassion sounds and tucking in the covers, I came out, pulled the hospital-grade germicide from under the kitchen sink, and swore that I would personally wreak havoc on anyone who might even think of contaminating the fruitcake when it finished baking, but my very. wise. children. assured me they will go nowhere near the sickroom. As I imagined making medical professionals proud with my scrubbing routine, dd nervously reminded me that her clock is ticking.

 

We finished dd's hair dye before dh called again, this time for some ginger ale to settle him after Round Two of the Festivities. More scrubbing.

Blessedly, dh had eaten dinner at a restaurant tonight, so we were pretty sure that he was not contagious. Eggplant parmesan and salad. I predict he never eats at That Italian Chain again.

 

The elves showed up to clean the kitchen--remarkably, they came without being called since they clearly know what is in their best interest--but one smarty pants elf wryly remarked that leaving the dish water running is a soundproofing trick that works for everyone's benefit.

 

In the fullness of time, or thereabouts, we rinsed out the hair dye, and dd pronounced the normalcy of the color A Full-blown Christmas Miracle, while in my head I thanked heavens that the light in the hall bath is dimmer than in other rooms.

 

As I write, the fruit cakes have now come out of the oven and cooled at the furthest end of the house. Around midnight, there is proof that I’ve rounded the bend when I tell the elves and dd to eat up the ice cream from the freezer, because the fruitcakes will spend the next 48 hours in the deep freeze.

I guess I will wait to Express Mail three fruitcake loaves to my parents on Monday, because I'm not sure I can send them in good conscience without the freezing, just in case it's viral. (I tell myself that’ll be enough.)

 

My grandmother made fruitcake until she was 90. She was made out of sterner stuff than I. I have vowed to keep the remaining loaves and the tube pan triple-wrapped and frozen until December 2013, whence I shall mail them off to the parents with a flourish, hoping that no one but me does the math on their provenance. I shan’t worry about the intervening year: it’s fruitcake, after all.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Join the conversation

You can post now and register later. If you have an account, sign in now to post with your account.

Guest
Reply to this topic...

×   Pasted as rich text.   Paste as plain text instead

  Only 75 emoji are allowed.

×   Your link has been automatically embedded.   Display as a link instead

×   Your previous content has been restored.   Clear editor

×   You cannot paste images directly. Upload or insert images from URL.

 Share

×
×
  • Create New...