Every year there’s at least one of them. The fruitcake-hater. They’re a timid lot. Someone, at some point in time, has put “the fear” in them. In many cases, it was years ago; some manufactured atrocity handed out at the office, or Great-Aunt Bertha’s dry stale creation that’s been handed back and forth from branch to branch of the family for a dozen years or more.
I take my work as a fruitcake missionary very seriously. The thrill of the challenge of fightin’ words laid down with a combination of stubbornness and trepidation; it must have been what brought the religious zealots back to the south seas islands again and again for the chance to convince the heathen natives that clothes really were better than running around naked. Fruitcake really *is* better than no fruitcake, you just have to trust me.
The first step is to treat the fruitcake-hater with a sense of gentleness. Move slowly, so as not to startle them, make no quick movements towards the buffet table. Just inquire, with a sense of caring and concern, as to exactly why they feel so vehemently against an innocent dessert.
The usual response is sullen.
“I just don’t like it.”
Yet when you press further (cautiously, mind you), it’s easy to uncover that, in most cases, they haven’t eaten a piece of the much-hated cake since childhood. Some will have specific complaints; they hate the nuts, they hate the fruit. These few are lost causes, and are better left to graze the cheese plate. As long as the ingredient of annoyance is included, they’ll be difficult to convince.
The others, however, the ones that complain of dry, hard cake with brittle marzipan icing, these are the ones that are ripe for the picking. “Oh, but see, I never use marzipan. Unless you make it yourself, it tends to taste chemically, and it does dry out. Plus it makes it really difficult to soak the cake with booze.”
Now you’ve got them. Hook, line and sinker – their eyes light up brighter than the lights on the nearby Christmas tree. “Booze, you say? What kind of booze? Great-Aunt Bertha was a tee-totaler. She never used booze.”
Well, I make two kinds of fruitcake,” I explain, “a regular one with orange brandy, and this nifty tropical version with pineapple and papaya, plus cashews and macadamia nuts, all soaked in more than a cup of coconut rum.”
At this point, most fruitcake-haters will emit a low, hushed, “oooooohhhhh.”
“Would you like to try some?”
Most will hesitate initially, put off by the three to four pound cakes that typify the season, figuring they’ll be expected to eat the whole thing, or at least a large slice.
“I make them in a couple of sizes, see? I make regular cupcake-sized ones for the people that really love fruitcake, and then I make these little mini ones for people who just want a taste. They’re the same size as those little two-bite brownies. It’s a two-bite fruitcake. Surely you can stand two little bites? Here, try one of the tropical ones.”
This is when the fruitcake missionary gets to stand back, smile smugly and chortle quietly to themselves. The fruitcake-hater’s eyes invariably become round and happy at the first bite. “Hey, this is goooood!” they exclaim. “It’s not like that dry hard fruitcake at all. It’s like the batter is really just a transport vehicle for the booze-soaked fruit!”
From there, many will even move on to the regular fruitcake of their own accord. By the end of the evening, most are fully converted and are trying to figure out how to get themselves on the fruitcake gift list for next year.
I am the official fruitcake baker for my family and Greg’s. While his Grandmother still bakes fruitcake for friends and neighbours in her hometown, she prefers to eat mine. No small compliment from someone who ran a hotel kitchen for 40 years and has been baking for most of her life.
C’mon over during the holidays, folks. I look forward to the opportunity to spread the gospel.