No matter how unstable the world might be, no matter how many troubling questions about the future hang over us, this much is sure: Once a year, in Mama's kitchen, fruitcake will happen. Not just any fruitcake either—it has to be Aunt Margaret's recipe, which calls for soaking the cake in peach brandy (the only circumstance under which Mama allows alcohol in her house.)
When Dave and I arrived for lunch this past Sunday, we found fruitcake fixin's on the table. Mama calls it "candied fruit," but I'm not sure there's anything as organic as fruit in those containers. We had a little confab about the impending cake while we passed the dinner rolls and the green beans. It went something like this:
Me: Well, I see that gummy fruit on the table. Guess we're about to have some fruitcake.
Mama: Yes we are, and you know good and well it's delicious.
Me: I've just never been that big on fruitcake.
Daddy: I wasn't either, but I've developed a taste for her recipe. If you've got to eat fruitcake, this is the one you want. I like the way you bite into it and then you get that brandy taste. It's really good.
[Pause . . . ]
Dave: You know there's a shortcut to that brandy taste, right?
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