The pleasures of less-than-perfect fruitcake

The pleasures of less-than-perfect fruitcake by Asha Hawkesworth
Growing up, my family didn’t have a lot of holiday traditions beyond putting up the tree and the stocking, waiting for Santa Claus, and going to some relative’s house for a meal. It was a very secular holiday without a lot of deeper meaning in it, which is why my wife and I have worked so hard to create new traditions for our family. That being said, there was one yearly holiday event from my youth that I miss. My father’s mother, known affectionately as Nina, baked fruitcake every year and mailed them to her children. My first memory of this fruitcake was when we lived in upstate New York. We received it in the mail, and upon opening, I saw this beautiful brown cake, studded with bright red, green, and yellow fruits. It looked delicious. They say never to judge a book by its cover, and Nina’s fruitcake was such a book. While the Norman Rockwell image of a grandmother includes twinkly eyes, graying hair, a thick waist, an apron, and a tray full of freshly baked goodies, my Nina had none of these. To be blunt: she was no cook. The tale of the fallen birthday cake is legendary, as is her cooked-the-entire-day pot roast, which bears more of a resemblance to shoe leather with gravy than to meat. And yet, in spite of all this, Nina made fruitcake every year. Her fruitcake was not awful; it just was not good. A bit too heavy, and way too much of the processed, candied-fruit flavor. Still, it came out of the oven intact and basically according to the recipe, which was a feat in itself. I ate her fruitcake in spite of its shortcomings. The pleasure I had in eating it was due in part to the fact that she made it for us. In fact, I rather liked to think that she made it for me. And I looked forward to her fruitcake every year. When we moved closer to my grandparents, we stopped receiving her fruitcake in the mail, but I knew that when we went to her house for Christmas dinner, I would find her fruitcake. I’d forget, momentarily, that the bookcover advertised more than it could deliver, and I ate it with relish. Nina stopped making fruitcake some time in the 80s. I don’t know why. Maybe she simply wearied of the annual rite of baking them. Or, as I suspect, someone ill-advisedly made mention of its shortcomings in her presence. I may never know. What I do know, however, is that I miss the less-than-perfect fruitcake that my grandmother baked every year out of love for us. No professionally made gourmand fruitcake could ever taste any better than that. If there is a Christmas ritual that drives you crazy or makes you less than enthusiastic, consider the source. Does someone in your family really love to do it? Does it give them pleasure every year? If the answer is yes, then refrain from commenting. It is so easy to crush another person's spirit, and it is such a gift when we allow them to have and express their joy. Let that be your Christmas present to others this year. Asha's nearly perfect fruitcake recipe 4 cups ripe banana, mashed 2 eggs, beaten 1½ cups sugar ½ cup buttermilk ½ cup butter 1 tsp vanilla 2 cups flour 1 tsp baking soda 1 tsp baking powder 1 tsp salt 1 tsp cinnamon ½ tsp nutmeg ¾ to 1 cup nuts, chopped ¾ to 1 cup raisins ¾ to 1 cup dried cherries fruit juice -or- brandy, rum, or scotch Soak the raisins and dried cherries overnight in either fruit juice or brandy, rum, or scotch, whichever you prefer. Make sure the liquid covers them. Cream the banana, eggs, sugar, buttermilk, butter, and vanilla together until smooth. Sift together the flour, baking soda, baking powder, salt, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Add the dry ingredients to the creamed mixture, blending just until all of the ingredients are moistened. Don’t overmix. Drain the dried fruit and mix into the batter with the nuts. Spray a bundt pan with cooking spray and pour in the batter. Bake at 350° F for about 1 hour. Sprinkle with a little powdered sugar just before serving if you like. Related articles: Glorious food All our children: Why they need the village Healing Scrooge's inner child: The gift of joy You are a guardian angel Making exceptions to Love We are One: 6.8 billion musketeers

The pleasures of less-than-perfect fruitcake
by Asha Hawkesworth

Mayan calendar

Growing up, my family didn’t have a lot of holiday traditions beyond putting up the tree and the stocking, waiting for Santa Claus, and going to some relative’s house for a meal. It was a very secular holiday without a lot of deeper meaning in it, which is why
my wife and I have worked so hard to create new traditions for our family.

That being said, there was one yearly holiday event from my youth that I miss. My father’s mother, known affectionately as Nina, baked fruitcake every year and mailed them to her children. My first memory of this fruitcake was when we lived in upstate New York. We received it in the mail, and upon opening, I saw this beautiful brown cake, studded with bright red, green, and yellow fruits. It looked delicious.

They say never to judge a book by its cover, and Nina’s fruitcake was such a book. While the Norman Rockwell image of a grandmother includes twinkly eyes, graying hair, a thick waist, an apron, and a tray full of freshly baked goodies, my Nina had none of these. To be blunt: she was no cook. The tale of the fallen birthday cake is legendary, as is her cooked-the-entire-day pot roast, which bears more of a resemblance to shoe leather with gravy than to meat. And yet, in spite of all this, Nina made fruitcake every year.

Her fruitcake was not awful; it just was not good. A bit too heavy, and way too much of the processed, candied-fruit flavor. Still, it came out of the oven intact and basically according to the recipe, which was a feat in itself.

I ate her fruitcake in spite of its shortcomings. The pleasure I had in eating it was due in part to the fact that she made it for us. In fact, I rather liked to think that she made it for me. And I looked forward to her fruitcake every year.

When we moved closer to my grandparents, we stopped receiving her fruitcake in the mail, but I knew that when we went to her house for Christmas dinner, I would find her fruitcake. I’d forget, momentarily, that the bookcover advertised more than it could deliver, and I ate it with relish.

Nina stopped making fruitcake some time in the 80s. I don’t know why. Maybe she simply wearied of the annual rite of baking them. Or, as I suspect, someone ill-advisedly made mention of its shortcomings in her presence. I may never know. What I do know, however, is that I miss the less-than-perfect fruitcake that my grandmother baked every year out of love for us. No professionally made gourmand fruitcake could ever taste any better than that.

If there is a Christmas ritual that drives you crazy or makes you less than enthusiastic, consider the source. Does someone in your family really love to do it? Does it give them pleasure every year? If the answer is yes, then refrain from commenting. It is so easy to crush another person's spirit, and it is such a gift when we allow them to have and express their joy. Let that be your Christmas present to others this year.

Asha's nearly perfect fruitcake recipe

4 cups ripe banana, mashed
2 eggs, beaten
1½ cups sugar
½ cup buttermilk
½ cup butter
1 tsp vanilla
2 cups flour
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon
½ tsp nutmeg
¾ to 1 cup nuts, chopped
¾ to 1 cup raisins
¾ to 1 cup dried cherries
fruit juice -or- brandy, rum, or scotch

Soak the raisins and dried cherries overnight in either fruit juice or brandy, rum, or scotch, whichever you prefer. Make sure the liquid covers them.

Cream the banana, eggs, sugar, buttermilk, butter, and vanilla together until smooth.

Sift together the flour, baking soda, baking powder, salt, cinnamon, and nutmeg.

Add the dry ingredients to the creamed mixture, blending just until all of the ingredients are moistened. Don’t overmix.

Drain the dried fruit and mix into the batter with the nuts.

Spray a bundt pan with cooking spray and pour in the batter. Bake at 350° F for about 1 hour. Sprinkle with a little powdered sugar just before serving if you like.

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