Last week I was out to lunch with a girlfriend who told me that she and another friend of hers had spent several minutes on the phone making fun of fruitcake. “No one likes fruitcake,” she said, and wondered why some women absolutely insist on making fruitcakes the day after Thanksgiving and then sending them to all their relatives and acquaintances for Christmas when it was perfectly plain that there is no one living who will eat the things.
Poor fruitcake just gets no respect. In fact, Dave Barry relates that his mother made an annual ritual of putting her fruitcake gifts on the kitchen floor and smashing them to smithereens by slamming the door on them over and over.
Well, I’m here to tell you that I love fruitcake, and I adore receiving fruitcakes as gifts, since I’m far too lazy to make one myself. This year I got one from a friend who lives in California, and it was a masterpiece. It was just the kind of extra-dark cake that I love, the kind that has just enough batter in it to hold the fruit and nuts together. It must have had five hundred calories per slice, and enough candied fruit to put even non-diabetics into a sugar coma.
Fruitcake is the epitome of decadence, and I say it wouldn’t be Christmas without it. I just finished off my last piece for this year, and washed it down with eggnog. And now I must go take a nap before I start my annual cleansing diet.