BEYOND REASON

 

There is a long tradition of throwing this hearty holiday baked good known as “the fruitcake” under the bus. There are top ten lists – Things to do with a fruitcake! 7) Paperweight; 4) Doorstop; 2) Anchor your boat. One town in Colorado holds an annual fruitcake toss. And the first late night titan, Johnny Carson, cracked a good one about there being only one fruitcake in the entire world and people keep sending it to each other.

Making fun of the fruitcake is low hanging dried fruit, so to speak, and I want in.

Pound for pound, unless you’re thinking of giving that special someone an industrial band saw made of osmium, there is no heavier gift than a fruitcake. So that’s something. But where did it come from?

The first fruitcake dates back to the Roman empire, with ingredients including pomegranate seeds, pine nuts, and raisins mixed into a barley mash. I’ve heard it described as “the first granola bar.” Somewhere along the line someone figured out if you add liquor to the mix, the “bread” will keep a bit longer. Also, now there’s liquor in it!

The fruitcake was also popular among Crusaders looking to liberate the holy land from Muslims. The thing about the Crusades, I mean, in addition to all the ruthless killing in the name of religion sanctioned by the Pope, is that they’re not short. I mean, you already knew wars were long, often lasting years, sometimes even decades. But Crusades are their own category of long. A good Crusade sometimes take centuries. Plural. So naturally, you’ll want to take a fruitcake.

Ask anyone from the Crusades, there is no better baked good to take onto the battlefield than a fruitcake.

Should you find yourself in hand-to-hand combat, the cake of dried fruits and nuts works against foes as both shield and sword. Like an old Western where the hero gets shot in chest, thought dead, only to pull a thick holy bible from his coat pocket, the bullet lodged therein, so too a decisive thrust with the sword to the midsection stops short, the enemies’ weapon lodged in the density of the cake for a split second, an eternity in war, and tides turn. Likewise, should a soldier lose his sword and his enemy think him helpless, let down his guard, smug, the enemy is now vulnerable to an attack with fruitcake as bludgeon. Finally, the ingenious soldier with a fruitcake in battle can, in a pinch, quickly regift it to his enemy, creating much the same reaction receiving one today evokes: confusion, disarray. While you cannot conquer a foe with this technique, you can disorient them long enough to skedaddle. And you know who’s not going to catch you? A foe holding a fruitcake.

Some may say It’s easy to make jokes about the fruitcake. And maybe that’s what I like about it. It’s easy. But it’s just a cake with dried fruit, nuts and booze. Is it really that bad? The answer to this question depends on your palate, like whether you have one. It is overly sweet and requires you to clear your calendar in order to chew it. Try to give a slice to an enthusiastic child, someone usually undiscerning when it comes to anything sweet, and watch his eyes drink in the fruitcake, his bright smile dissipates, the spark in his spirit sags. Slowly, he turns to you with a strange new understanding of what the word “ennui” means.

Some may ask, Rob, what advice do you have for those who encounter a fruitcake this holiday season? I would remind you that while the prospect is daunting, it’s still just a cake with fruit in it. And because the cake did not, you must rise to the occasion, so to speak. The most important thing is to lift with your legs. Never lift and twist or turn your body at the same time. And finally, remember the thing that will get you through this are jokes.

Now others may ask: Who really sends fruitcake anymore? Well, my parents do.

Every year, my parents, who do not read this column, send my in-laws, who do read this column, a fruitcake. My in-laws then, in turn, thank my parents, crack a few fruitcake jokes for a couple of weeks – Don’t drop it on your foot! – and ultimately regift the fruitcake to some unsuspecting neighbor/friend. While I do not know what happens to the cake after that, it is entirely possible that the thing may, like Johnny Carson suggests, spend month after month making its way back to my parents, just in time for next year.