EVERYBODY HATES FRUIT CAKE

Today would have been my father’s 99^th birthday, had he not died in 2004.  In his memory, I’m baking fruit cake, despite the fact that everybody says they hate fruit cake.  I’m using my mother’s recipe as an inspiration.  That’s her well-used recipe index card above.  She died in 1995, nine years before my father, leaving several fruitcakes in the freezer.  I inherited one of them, still wrapped in its Christmas wrapping paper shroud, in December 2004.  It came to a sad end in the Tiergarten, well, maybe not sad.  I like to think positively about the fate of that last fruitcake.  But you be the judge.

Weeping Willow and Japanese Maples in the Tiergarten

As fruitcakes go, mine was very well-traveled.  In early 2005, it was shipped overseas in a container along with furniture, housewares, Christmas ornaments, photographs, other emotionally-charged memorabilia, and odd whatnot's from my parents’ house in New Jersey to our house in Italy.  I imagine the fruitcake defrosted en route somewhere while crossing the Atlantic.  Because of this temperature-non-controlled journey, I was always afraid to eat it, yet I couldn’t bring myself to just throw it away.  So it remained re-frozen and untouched in our freezer in Tuscany for five years.  Then in July 2009, the last fruitcake traveled again, this time via a moving van to Berlin, during which trip it must have defrosted yet again, possibly somewhere outside of Leipzig.  But back into a new freezer it went on its arrival in Berlin, where it stayed until the winter of 2010.  

Tiergarten in the Fall

One very cold afternoon (was it February?), while pawing through the freezer in search of something, I saw the red, green, and gold Christmas paper-wrapped rectangular loaf.  Two options stared back at me.  One, I could throw caution to the wind and brave death or a severe case of the runs:  I could let it thaw, unwrap it, cut a slice, and eat it.  

Or, I could chicken out, be cautious, and figure out a way to dispose of it in a dignified manner befitting its sentimental origins, if not its longevity.  I chose Door Number Two. 

Lake in the Tiergarten

…which led to the Tiergarten.  One of the tricks my husband used to lure me from Tuscany to Berlin was the Tiergarten, a vast public park criss-crossed with canals, ponds, meadows, winding paths, formal flower gardens, imposing statuary of German cultural figures, charming stone bridges, and stands of mature trees planted after the war.  I love to walk and after we moved here, I went into the Tiergarten often.  One of my favorite spots is Am Neuen See, a small lake in the heart of the Tiergarten frequented by ducks, blue heron, and other assorted waterfowl.  

With the freezer door still open, I gently lifted the fruitcake out of its cryogenic home and carefully unwrapped it as if it were an Egyptian mummy.  I ceremoniously folded its Christmas shroud only to reveal a second protective layer--an inner aluminum foil protective wrapping.  With the heavy loaf in hand, hidden in a tote bag, I headed for Am Neuen See.  

Tiergarten in Winter Light

The lake was frozen over with ice that glared back at me in a slate gray indifference. Here and there were white scuffs on the surface where an animal had tread and left scrapings like those from a skater’s blade.  Near the shore broken black branches and dried reeds that grew at the water’s edge emerged from the depths.  Thankfully, I saw no bottles or cans, no evidence of human desecration.  But all that was about to change.

Blue Heron Am Neuen See

I solemnly removed the aluminum foil.  I stepped as close as I dared to the edge of the frozen lake.  I looked around and saw no one.  Just me and the last fruitcake.  Taking a deep breath and feeling a combination of shame and cowardice, I heaved the fruitcake as far across the lake as I could.  It hit the ice, bounced, did a triple Axel, skidded a bit, and finally slid to a resting stop about 50 meters from where I stood.  I felt ambivalent, but at least I hadn’t just “thrown it away.”  

My Fruit Cake Ingredients

You see, my plan was that hungry birds wintering in the Tiergarten or who knows, maybe even a fox or a marten, would find my mother’s last fruitcake and consume it hungrily, adding a little meat to their bones.  And it was also my fervent hope that any such consumption would not lead to botulism or worse.  I didn't return until Spring to find out, and by that time, the fruitcake was nowhere to be seen.  Had it been eaten?  Sunk to the bottom of the lake when it thawed?  I'll never know.

That’s my fruitcake confession.  

Before

In honor of my parents’ memory, at this time of the year when absence of family pierces particularly sharply, and perhaps to expiate guilt, I’m making my mother’s fruitcake.  And I don’t care that everybody hates fruitcake.  Well, I care just a little, which is why I decided to put my own stamp on it.  Truth be told, while my mother’s fruitcake was not the least bit dry (a common complaint among fruitcake haters), I always thought hers was a little too sweet, so I’m substituting dried cranberries for her red and green candied cherries, and I’m adding dates, citron, and a little candied ginger.  The candied pineapple, the walnuts, and the white and red raisins stay.  And, in a rash departure from my mother's recipe, I soaked all the fruit in a little brandy!  Judging by the wine (?) stains on the recipe index card, I think my mother would have approved.

After

Fruitcake.  You either love it or you hate it.  I loved my mother('s), so I made it. 

Keep it real!

Marilyn