Fruitcakes have arrived!
(And not a moment too soon–after all it’s only nine weeks to Christmas.)
I have to admire the optimism of grocers who continue to stock this unpopular item, year after year. Other than my Welsh mother, who died almost thirty years ago, I can’t think of anyone who eats these leaden blocks of dried fruit, flour and fat.
I’m partial to the thick marzipan layer on top, but that’s as far into fruitcake territory as I’m prepared to venture.
My mom, who was a truly loving and generous parent, used to cut off the marzipan and give it to me EVERYTIME she “enjoyed” a slice of fruitcake. It’s not that she didn’t like marzipan herself. (Who doesn’t???) She shared the best part of her fruitcake with me because she loved me.
Seeing that fruitcake display brought back such fond recollections of being cherished that I almost bought one so I could take the feeling home with me.
Maybe those grocers are smarter than I thought. They’re not selling fruitcake. They’re selling memories.