It’s Fruitcake Weather

Holiday traditions create feelings of nostalgia in all of us, young and old. Twinkling lights on a Christmas tree, the smell of baked goods floating through the air, and freshly-fallen powdery snow — all evoke the warm feeling of tradition, family, and love during the holiday season. 

Sharing those holiday memories and keeping holiday traditions alive are part of the joy and magic of the season. A family holiday tradition I cherish is one my maternal grandmother began decades ago, and partaking in it is one of the fondest memories I have of the holiday season.

The tradition typically began just before Thanksgiving. November’s blustery winds would arrive, weaving frost spider webs onto Mother’s kitchen window, sparking her predictable response.

“Oh, my!” she would say, staring at their intricate designs, “It’s fruitcake weather!”

Mother would rush to her kitchen, double-checking the pantry for the necessary baking essentials — flour, baking soda, sugar, cinnamon, vanilla, nutmeg, and molasses. With her grocery list firmly in hand, we’d bundle up in our heavy winter coats and drive downtown along slippery, snow-covered streets.

We’d park in front of the only grocery store in town and scurry toward the front door as the cold air nipped at our faces. I’d pause and let the magic of the holiday season envelop me, and notice that the air felt like delicate frozen lace on my skin, reminding me of one of Granny’s fancy lace doilies. 

“Are you coming?” Mother would ask. “Stop your dawdling. Time’s a wastin’!”

I’d shake the sugary snow off my boots and follow Mother inside where she’d purchase packages of my favorite things: red and green candied cherries, candied pineapple, candied orange and lemon peel, figs, walnuts, pecans, raisins, dates, and candied citron.

Back home in her cozy kitchen, we’d carefully chop the nuts, the candied fruits, the dates, and figs, blending them with the heavy batter, and then dump the glorious mixture into fluted cake and loaf pans.  

I would perch on a kitchen stool listening to Christmas music play on the radio and wait, the smell of nutmeg, cinnamon, and dark molasses wafting through the air.

Three hours later, the cakes would emerge from the oven only to be doused with peach brandy, wrapped in cheesecloth, and then stored in every dark nook and cranny Mother could find. Every few days I would pester her. “Are they done yet, Mother?”

“No, not yet. Be patient. Homemade fruitcake needs to sit and ripen before it can be eaten. It gets better with age.” 

After what seemed like months — it was really only three or four weeks — she’d ceremoniously unwrap one of the fruitcakes, close her eyes, and inhale the sweet aroma of the brandy-soaked fruitcake. “Take a whiff!” she’d say with enthusiasm.

I would immediately be catapulted back in time to Granny’s kitchen during the holiday season, a kitchen filled with the delectable scent of sweet baked goodness mixed with the smell of candied fruit, dried nuts, and spices combined with the notes of vanilla spice and juicy, fresh peach brandy. 

“They’re perfect!” Mother would declare. “The fruitcakes are ready for wrapping.” 

Out would come the rolls of wax paper, aluminum foil, ribbon, and the ever-so-sturdy mailing cartons. We’d spend several hours bundling up our packages of holiday cheer, then take them to the post office, faithfully entrusting the local mail carriers with their safe delivery.

On the way home, we would drop off mini versions of Mother’s fruitcakes to neighbors, teachers, and friends then tootle home, warmed with the knowledge we were like Christmas angels brightening Christmas for our family and friends.

As my head would sink into my pillow on those nights, it would dance with visions of folks unwrapping our gifts, sniffing the cinnamon, cloves, and peach brandy, and eating a slice of our dense, sweet fruitcake topped with a generous portion of thick whipped cream.

Generally, folks felt blessed when they received one of Mother’s moist, homemade fruitcakes.  Unlike today, they were an eagerly anticipated holiday treat.

I’m heartened that Mother loved making those fruitcakes, faithfully keeping the holiday tradition alive. I’m touched by how thoughtfully she involved me in the decades-old family holiday tradition, a tradition my maternal grandmother began in the 1930s — one I revisit every year when it’s fruitcake weather.

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Looking for more holiday delights? We love Christmas around here, so we’ve plenty to share!

• Almost Christmas Morning – Christmas Eve Essay
• The Princess and the Pain – Christmas Fairy Tale
• Holiday Refrain – Creative Nonfiction
• The Jewfish – A Holiday Tale
• Christmas Waltz – Christmas Poetry
• A Matter of Tradition – Personal Essay
• Holiday Delights – Poetry