Rum Laced Fruitcake

     A Facebook friend posted a funny old joke today about Tequila cake, in which the "recipe" becomes more and more garbled and hilarious as the baker "tests" the Tequila.  It reminded me of my own real life experience baking a Rum Laced Fruitcake.
     Fruitcake is usually a holiday joke about doorstops or regifting the same cake for years to poor unsuspecting, and obviously not very popular, family members.  My dad happens to be someone who really enjoys a good fruitcake.  He asked me to bake one for him as his Christmas present.  This was in the mid '90's, when my children were small and I worked full time in the Nutrition Services department of a small hospital.  I was trying to juggle my work, taking care of the family and creating wonderful Christmas memories for the children.  I agreed to take on the fruitcake task but wondered when I would find the time to do it.
     Dad had thoughtfully provided money to buy all of the expensive fruits, nuts and real butter that the cake would require, and had stopped at the liquor store for the Captain Morgan's Rum that he wanted to be used for the fruitcake.  I decided to just plunge into the cake one evening after picking up the children from daycare.  I settled the children in at home with a snack and Christmas movie and went to work in the kitchen.
     After gathering all of the ingredients I began chopping the nuts by hand. Brazil nuts, Hazelnuts, Almonds and Pecans.  I was feeling a little pressure by then, and I still had all of the fruits to chop. My eye landed on the innocent bottle of rum just standing there, unopened.  I thought for a moment, then went ahead and got out a small glass.  I chuckled when I noticed the glass in my hand was a Happy Meal souvenir, part of the Thumbelina collection.  I poured a small amount of run in the glass and tossed it back.  I felt the warmth immediately and poured just a touch more rum into the glass.  I let this slide down my throat, with a small pleasurable shudder.  The fruitcake recipe looked a little less intimidating already.  I began chopping the dried fruit, apricots, dates, and halved the large amount of colorful red and green cherries.  The children's movie was finished and they began to whine about being bored.  Going to play outside was out of the question as it was a typical rainy Oregon day, so I told them they could go see if any of their friends wanted to come play. I was in a very generous mood, and my daughter asked me why my cheeks were red.  I told her it was from being in the warm kitchen and shooed her out to door to fetch a friend for her and her brother to play with.  I raised the Thumbelina glass to my lips and went back to work. 
     I stood back and surveyed the fruits and nuts of my labor, all lined up in neatly measured bowls. Good work.  I toasted my good work with a little rum.  I decided that fruitcake baking would be part of my new annual holiday tradition.  It was time to begin mixing.  The kids were having a great time playing with friends, and I decided not to worry about them dragging all of their toys out at one time.  I set to work measuring the sugar, spilling just a little, but decided I could clean it up later when I cleaned the whole kitchen.  I measured out the rum that was needed for the cake and noted that the bottle must not have had as much in it as advertised.  I had enough to stir into the batter but  not enough left to soak the cake in.  I would have to make a trip to the liquor store while the cake was in the oven.  There was a few ounces left in the bottle, however, and I went ahead and polished them off. The Thumbelina glass was nowhere in sight so I just tipped up the bottle.  Now for the flour.  Flour tends to be messy as you measure it, but I didn't even blink at the cup or two that landed on the floor instead of the measuring cup. 
     One by one the dry ingredients were sifted into my huge mixing bowl.  Then came the molasses and rum, and finally the carefully chopped fruits and nuts.  I began to break a sweat as I mixed, and out of the corner of my eye I noticed four children sliding through the kitchen behind me in their stocking feet.  "What fun!" I thought.  It made me a little dizzy to watch them so I concentrated on the batter. I began to sweat profusely. Finally, the batter was ready.  I turned to retrieve my carefully greased and parchment lined pans. A small child wizzed by me, nearly upending me.  I had to grab onto the counter to keep from falling, as the flour spilled on the floor, combined with the dizziness from the hard mixing work made me a little unsteady on my feet.  I noticed my daughter quietly dumping a bit more flour onto the floor to make it slicker and thought, "What fun!"  I told her to go ahead and empty the bag because I was done with it. It reminded me of a story about my uncle buttering the kitchen floor as a child so he could slide farther, so I measured out a few dollops of butter for the kids to slide on.   I do remember her eyes getting huge with disbelief, although some of the other details remain a bit fuzzy. 
     I measured the batter carefully and placed the cakes into the oven.  The digital controls on the oven seemed a bit blurry so I double and triple checked them to make sure they were correct. I made a mental note to call an appliance repairman if I needed to.  I set the timer and wobbled over to the table to sit and rest before cleanup. My head began to ache just a little, I'm sure it was from the noisy children practicing Ice Capades on the flour covered kitchen floor.  I told the visiting children that it was time to go home, knowing I would be getting a phone call about them being covered in flour and having buttered socks.  I phoned in a pizza order for dinner and fetched the broom and dustpan.  My head was throbbing and the smell of the baking fruitcake was a bit nauseating.  I told myself it was stress.  Holiday stress. 
     By the time my husband arrived home the flour was swept up, floor mopped with very hot water, and barely slick,  bowls and counter tops were washed, children were bathed, in clean pajamas and pizza was ready for pick up.  I dispatched him for the pizza, and to the liquor store for more rum.  He was a bit puzzled about the rum part, because he had thought my dad was going to supply it.  "He forgot,"  I told him as I pushed him out the door.  The fruitcakes were just coming out of the oven when he returned again, just in time to brush the warm cakes with a nice glaze of rum.  I discarded the remaining rum down the drain, while talking on the phone to the neighbor, explaining how the kids had gotten into my baking ingredients without permission and made a mess.
     Dad loved the fruitcakes and to this day I can't replicate the exact recipe, due to modifications that I had made along the way.  My sister received a small fruitcake that year in her package of mailed goodies.  She called me and asked, "Fruitcake?  Is this a joke?"  I said, "You have NO idea."

Hank and Robert Strike Gold

      Rocky's Bar and Grill is no longer,  but if you were to stand in the spot where the burned out foundation still stands testimony to it's existence I'm sure you could still hear the faintly warbled strains of "Stand By Your Man" sung Karaoke style by countless aging country-at-heart gals.  Their home-manicured nails nearly cutting into their own palms as they tightened their grip on the microphone, eyes closed tightly as they belted out the chorus.  Rocky's stood directly across the street from Bullwinkles Pizza parlor, a humorous bit of small town Americana.  Rumor has it that the fire at Rocky's was an insurance scam, but never proven. 
     This story takes place a few years, quite a few pounds and lots of gray hairs ago, around the time I was 36, and newly divorced.  My best friend Liz and I decided to go check out the famed Karaoke night at Rocky's one chilly fall Saturday.  As we pushed open the door into the haze of smoke we heard a woman dramatically flatten a note of "Crazy" by Patsy Cline.  We grimaced as we made our way through the tables, noticing that the crowd that evening was a bit on the elderly side except for the 20-something group of guys watching college football on the corner TV.  There were a few couples around our age; husbands sitting with wives who tightened their grips on their man's arms as we passed by on our way to an empty booth.  Liz took off her jacket and leaned across the table to whisper to me, while glancing around quickly, that there appeared to be no single men near our age in the building that evening. We shrugged, discussed what we would order to drink, and I wondered how much I would have to drink to get up the courage to sing Karaoke.  There was one bartender on duty that night, and he was also the table hopper.  He stopped by our table after delivering a round of beer bottles to the table behind us and asked what we would like.  We both ordered bottled beer and he headed to  the bar to fetch them.  As he placed them on the table he waved away our money, telling us that a couple of "gents" at the bar had paid for our beer.  We both glanced over to the bar, then looked at each other with horror and I whispered between clenched teeth, "Don't make eye contact!"
     Too late.  One of the "gents" pushed off from the bar and made his way over.  He looked to be in his mid fifties, tall and slender except for the prominent belly all but hiding his silver belt buckle. Despite the black cowboy hat on his head, the belt buckle wasn't won at any rodeo, instead it sported the logo Winston.  Winston, as in, get this buckle free with the purchase of X cartons of Winston cigarettes.  As he approached, Liz and I slid to the very edge of our seats, preventing anyone from sliding in next to us without invitation.  This didn't appear to phase our suitor one little bit.  He doffed his hat, exposing a sweaty few strands of gray hair combed sideways to camouflage a bald head. He introduced himself as Hank.  He pointed to the bar and said, "That there's Robert. Robert bet me a twenty that I wouldn't have the guts to come over here and talk to you. I paid for them beers with my  winnings."  He grinned broadly, quickly clapped his mouth shut to adjust the poorly fitting dentures he sported, then grinned again.  He scooted a little closer to Liz, and it was clear that she was his intended target.  I glanced at her to guage how she wanted to handle the rejection of Hank but was shocked to see that she was smiling at Hank with her head tipped just a bit sideways.  I knew what was happening and was helpless to stop it.  Liz was unable to stop herself from flirting.  She's the most accomplished flirt I know, and sometimes she's powerless to turn it off.  Hank looked like a man who'd just won the lottery.  He gestured to Robert to come over, as he slid in next to Liz.  He had to push her a little, because I could see it was dawning on her how our evening was going to go from then on.  Hank turned to check on Robert's arrival and gestured again more emphatically this time, as Robert just stood there at the bar, slack jawed. 
     I listened as an older gentleman rendered a very rich version of "Behind Closed Doors" at the Karoake mike.  As I turned to watch the gentleman sing my view was blocked by a blue and black striped shirt with pearl buttons, still stiff from the hanger at the western wear section of Walmart.  Robert.  He stood, still slack jawed, staring at me from the end of the table. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye and he grinned.  Obviously, dental care was not a priority in Robert's life, as his grin looked a bit like a Jack-O-Lantern, with all the missing teeth. I looked away, and Robert returned to his steady slack jawed stare.    Liz and Hank took a turn on the dance floor, leaving me and Robert alone at the table.  I refused to slide over, and not one word was said.  He stood there with his beer bottle in hand, staring.  I studied the label of my beer bottle as if my life depended on it.  Hank and Liz returned, Karoake book in hand.  It seems that a duet was planned, something from Conway Twitty and Loretta Lynn, Or Dottie West and Kenny Rogers.  While Liz pored over the titles Hank filled me in on Robert's tale of marital woe and how this evening was planned to "cheer the poor guy up."  Robert was separated from his wife, had been kicked out of the trailer, and served with child support papers.  Robert had four kids under the age of five to support, work at the mill was slow, and his truck needed a transmission.  I was waiting to hear about the hound dog dying, but Hank droned on instead about Robert's no good cheatin' fat slob of a wife.  Robert nodded now and then, but said nothing.  He kept his gaze fixed on me, unblinking.  I still refused to slide over, but it didn't appear to bother any of the other three. As Hank spoke it became clear that his deodorant, if there had been any, had given up the battle.   I gave Liz a little kick under the table to get her attention and our glances met.  Hank excused himself to go visit the "Little Cowboy's Room," and as soon as he disappeared through the door we sprang into action.  I glanced at my watch, exclaimed loudly, "Look at the time, my babysitter will be frantic!"  Grabbing my coat I pushed past the stunned Robert and caught up with Liz who was already nearly out the door.  As we pulled out of the parking lot we laughed and decided it would be a long while before we returned to Rocky's for Karaoke Night.  We decided to call it quits for the evening, and I drove her home.  It was around 10 pm, after all!  Before I went to bed that night I checked my email.  There was an email from Liz with the title in big bold type:  HANK AND ROBERT STRIKE GOLD.  It gave me the inspiration for this little tale.

Just sittin' on the porch.

Sittin' on the porch brings to mind a summer's evening and lemonade, a cool breeze and the smell of freshly cut grass.  For most people.  For myself, it brings back the memory of stinging buns.  My second experience of the stinging bun sort, brought on by porch sitting was when I was around six years old.  It was a nice hot summer day, we lived on a beautiful lake surrounded by mountains, and the summer people (as my parents called them, because we lived there all year round) were vacationing in the neighboring lake houses.  I had made friends with a couple girls my own age who's parents owned a cabin just a couple houses away. They had the best dock to swim from and a nice sandy swimming area.  Not like the muck and sea-weedy area right off of our dock.  We were getting ready to go to town.  The big town of Libby, eighteen miles away.  It meant that shopping and maybe dinner at one of the two cafe's in town was in store for us, and it was a big deal. I was all cleaned up and told to sit on the porch and wait, and stay clean, while my parents got ready.  I could see the neighbor girls floating on inner tubes, splashing and having a great time.  They called me over.  I shook my head.  They insisted so I thought, "what's the harm?"  As I stood on the dock feeling jealous my friend Penny, also six, said that if I was really careful I could slide onto her innertube without getting wet, and have a little fun. I did have fun, although the part about staying clean and dry didn't quite work out.   The stinging buns comes from  the application of a wooden spoon applied to a soaking wet bottom.
     You'd think I would have learned this lesson at age five, before we moved to the lake.  My aunt was visiting from Oregon and had sewn me a beautiful white lacy dress.  She was left in charge of me while my mom went grocery shopping, and wanted to dress me up as a surprise while she was gone. She put me into the itchy lacy dress, new white ruffled socks, black Mary Jane shoes, and a red ribbon in my hair.  She told me to sit on the front step and wait for my mom.  There was no lake at that apartment complex, but there was a really huge dirt pile from some construction.  Kids were climbing up and sliding down.  What could be the harm of a few turns sliding down the hill?  You've got it, stinging buns, but not from sliding down the dirt hill.
     I had learned my lesson.  If I was told to sit on the porch and wait I would not move.  No way.  Not  when mom had sewn matching outfits for me and my two year old sister.  I was eight, and I knew better than to move off of that porch. Not even to fetch my sister from the newly oiled and gravelled road.  Not even to prevent her from sitting in the middle of the tar and gravel while she made a tar and gravel castle.  Not even when she rubbed tar into her hair and all over her new outfit. 
I still think it's unfair that I was the one that had stingin' buns after that one!

Opp, Alabama

Mike was passed by a semi today from Opp, Alabama, while we were on the phone together.  He wondered out loud whether this was the name of a town or if part of the paint had rubbed off from the town's name....So I googled it.  It's the real name of a town.  I wonder if the town founders were unable to spell Opportunity, or if it stands for something.  Old Pea Pickers?  I'll have to research more. 

Grave Robbers

     I had the great fortune to live right on a lake near a small town in Northwest Montana called Troy, from the time I was around four years old, until I was around eight years old.  When I was eight we moved to a big city eighteen miles away that actually had a stoplight but that's a whole different adventure to write about.      My parents purchased a home that was actually a summer home, on a small lake tucked into the mountains named Savage Lake.  We had the open floor plan before it was cool.  Actually, the home was just one very large room, there were no bedrooms.  We had an actual plumbed bathroom, but you had to step outside the door into the carport to access it, as it had been attached after the original cabin had been built.  It was a cold few steps to the bathroom during the middle of winter, that's for sure.  Eventually my parents enclosed the covered porch near the front of the cabin, overlooking the lake, which created a master bedroom for them.  Their contractor of choice was a boozy neighbor named Elmer, who had quite an interesting family that should be the subject of another post. 
     As you can imagine, living on a lake was a terrific place to grow up.  We had swimming and boating in the summer, ice skating, ice fishing and snow mobiling on the frozen lake in the winter. My mom spent many an hour shoveling snow on the lake to create a place for me to skate.  I have many memories of summer BBQ's, and get togethers.  I remember the little known betting sport of turtle racing, wherein hapless turtles were snatched from their logs, had numbers painted on their shells, and were placed fifty yards or so from the water while tipsy adults placed bets on which turtle would reach the water first.  Not exactly a high speed event,  you could use the bathroom and fetch a snack while your turtle was racing, and not miss much of the action. 
     For my sixth birthday I received the gift that I wanted the most.  A bike.  Not just any bike, mind you.  It was a purple banana seat bike with a basket.  Not just a basic utilitarian metal basket, either.  This basket was white wicker, with colorful painted flowers on it.  I was in heaven.  Unfortunately, however, the only level place to ride my bike was out on the highway.  Our property sloped down steeply from the highway, straight down to the lake.  Being the early 70's, though, out to the highway I went, and of course bike helemts were unheard of at that time, and nobody worried about child abductions, so I was turned loose.  Other than some vague warnings about wandering into the woods where there may be a "hermit," I was pretty much free to roam, although I worried alot about hermits and wondered if I would recognize one if I saw one. 
     Directly across the highway from our house was another small lake named Milner Lake.  On one side of the lake there was a beautiful little cemetary nestled into the trees.  I liked to ride my bike to the cemetary and read the headstones, and wonder about the lives of the folks buried there.  Even at six years old I was truly saddened at the couple of baby graves that were tucked amongst the others. 
     One day I noticed a pile of dead flowers and assorted vases that was placed off to the side of the graveyard.  There had been a cemetary clean-up day and these were the discards that were waiting to be disposed of.  I picked out a pretty glass vase, popped it into my white wicker basket with colorful flowers painted on it, and pedalled home.  Mom was thrilled with the vase.  This was the start of my brief career as a grave robber.
     A few days later we were visited by my grandma and my uncle, who is two years older that me. He brought his bike so we could ride on the highway together.  Grandma had admired my mom's new vase, and asked if there were any more like it on the discard pile at the cemetary.  Off we pedalled. We discovered that the discard pile had been removed and were afraid to go home empty handed.  We scratched our heads a little, wondering what to do, when my uncle pointed out that there were many new vases and fresh flowers on the graves.  Yep.  Yes, we did.  Mom and Grandma were thrilled with our haul.  Not just one vase, but several were tucked into our bike baskets, complete with nice fresh fake flowers. 
     At the time, I felt most guilty about telling the fib about these lovely items being on the discard pile, the concept of disrespecting the dead and the families of the dead didn't enter my six year old mind at the time.  Years later, of course, I had to wonder about Mom and Grandma.  Did they really think that all those fresh fake flowers and lovely new vases had been tossed out?  Interestingly enough, my uncle and I still remember this, Grandma has passed on and my mom remembers NOTHING.  Hmmm.
     When I update my resume these days, I prefer not to disclose my brief career as a grave robber.

Testing the waters of the blog world.

At the request of many friends I've decided to test the waters of the blog world.  Let's see what happens......