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."
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