I picked up a fruitcake and looked at it appraisingly, much to my surprise. I’d come for milk and creamer for the tea and coffee. The snacks were already there and I never liked fruitcake. But, since it was after the holidays, it was on sale. That’s still not going to make me like it, I thought. Do I even know anyone who likes it? Something like sentimentality brushed against me….
Looking from one to the other, icing or no icing? Snippets of faded images lingered, barely coming into focus….
The dishes were cleared and they served us all tea, coffee and fruitcake. Despite being a little kid I could tell they’d taken a lot of care with this meal. I managed a bite out of politesse. I hoped to be excused from the table.
That’s not very persuasive, I thought as I stood in line at the check-out.
I could hear a faraway clinking of cups and saucers, and strained to hear their voices. These people long since turned to ash and dust.
It’s probably not that bad, this fruitcake that weighed the same as a brick. Variations have been around since the Middle Ages, after all. Obviously a lot of people like it, I reasoned, as I arranged slices on a serving plate.
One bite and I reached for my cup, glad that I’d brewed a strong pot of black tea. Give it a chance. Another bite. May I be excused? Oh wait, I’m a grownup. We may all be excused! I laughed.
Maybe I’ll try a homemade recipe next year. What can we really expect from factory-made? Bread, fruit, nuts, whiskey…it should be delicious, shouldn’t it?
If you happen to have an authentic homemade recipe I’d be grateful if you sent it my way. 🙂