Our Christmas Cookbook - 2. The Fruitcake

The Fruitcake

Shawn pulled the pan from the oven. He inhaled the smell of the dark brown confection deeply, enjoying the pungent, rich spices, and the heady, sweet fruit. He set the loaf pan on an antique iron trivet carefully designed with gaily painted ivy and poinsettia leaves, red and shades of green, intertwined pleasingly. The delicate, yet insistent, aroma of caramel filled the room.

Carefully, he stirred the brandy, rum, and even more spices in the syrup in a saucier pot. He whispered words in a forgotten tongue, and breathed in even more deeply. The smell of the liquor was intoxicating, but not in a drunken way. Instead, Shawn felt a connection with that which he created. He glanced outside and saw the last of the leaves clinging to the trees. Pumpkins still graced the fronts of doorways. This was the time to start preparing for Christmas.

After tumbling the cheesecloth into the concoction, the middle-aged man gazed lovingly over his tableau. Everything was arranged just so. The fruitcake was cooling while the elixir was soaked up into the wrapping cloth. He had a cool stoneware container with a lid standing by, waiting to hold the treat while it mellowed and cured with time and marination.

Shawn left the kitchen, allowing everything to come to room temperature, and eased into a chair. In moments he was asleep and dreaming child-like dreams.

***

RJ was startled by the ringing doorbell. She’d been looking through her bills, trying to figure out which ones to pay and which ones could wait. Her Visa was maxed out, and the bank was demanding a payment by the end of next week or they would suspend her account. There was about a hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of credit on it. So, if she sent the minimum amount, ninety-eight bucks to them, she could pay her electric and gas bills.

Borrowing from Peter to pay Paul.

Getting up, she pushed aside the past due notice for her mortgage and nervously picked her way to the front door. As she anxiously peered out her side window, she saw a plain, brown paper wrapped package sitting on the front step. It was small, slightly larger than a loaf of bread, with neatly tucked corners.

“What’s up mom?” her son called out from behind her. “Is someone here?”

“No,” she said, biting her lower lip. Opening the front door, she stepped into the entry and reached for the screen door. It was delicately laced with white frost left by the cold snap last night.

“What did we get?”

Beau was right behind her now, and he rushed past her and grabbed the brown paper package out from under her. The teen was wearing a Fighting Squirrels t-shirt and fleece pants with little robots on them. He bounced excitedly as he lifted the package and shook it vigorously.

She scowled as he manhandled the box.

“What is it?” he asked again.

“I don’t know,” she answered, holding out her hand. “Give it to me.”

“Is it a Christmas present?” the teen asked, beaming with a delighted grin.

Beau was such a sweet boy, thin and rambunctious, with straw-blond hair that seemingly to stick at odd angles regardless of how much care he took. His face was festooned with freckles, and with angry eruptions of pimples on his forehead and chin. His cheeks were pink and clear, however. He would become glum from time to time when it was time for school pictures, or when he was getting ready for an outing or party with friends.

RJ loved him with all her heart, but had to admit, he wasn’t the most handsome teen in his class. His other gifts though….

“I don’t know what it is,” she said, taking it from her son’s hands. “Let me see—”

Beau took it back from her, and began ripping off the brown paper. “It’s kind of heavy. Did Dad send me something?”

RJ’s face darkened at his question. “Let me see the return address.”

Beau shoved the bulky paper at her and started to bust open the box. “It feels like a game console or something. Maybe dad…” and his voice trailed off as the cardboard container popped open.

“It’s a stupid cake,” he said fiercely. His eyes met his mother’s and while they’d looked so excited a moment earlier, now they looked dejected. “A gross cake that weighs a ton.” He thrust the package into RJ’s hands. Within seconds, the teen was gone, back to his room, no doubt. She worried that with his hopes dashed, her son would do something stupid again.

She didn’t have the energy to deal with this now.

RJ returned to the kitchen table and plunked the box and it’s wrapping on the table. She sat back down and started going over those bills.

Now the gas and electric might wait if she used the credit card to buy something for Beau for Christmas. He might need something, something that made him feel alive. Not the something that he tried several months ago.

She hadn’t seen any evidence recently of his previous issues, but had RJ been preoccupied? Last spring he’d started wearing long-sleeved shirts and withdrawing into his room. It had been strange for Beau, who was usually so garrulous and social. Then other things started to became more obvious.

Beau was flunking all his classes, and she got an email from his counselor. Her son had always liked school. He always brought home A’s and B’s, and for him to do so poorly was out of character.

She confronted him a couple of times, and he was non-responsive, a little sullen and guarded. RJ was stymied and lost sleep. Wracking her brain, she tried to figure out what was going on with him.

That is until she saw his arm. He’d reached for another sloppy joe and his sleeve rode up. There were two thin red lines, almost undetectable, but for a former Goth like herself, it was so telling.

Her son had been experiencing some depression, and began cutting himself. RJ immediately got moving. She had known people who used this as a coping mechanism, and unfortunately it sometimes got even worse.

They had worked through it with a school counselor, a free clinic doctor, and a lot of crying together. RJ told her son things she thought she’d never share. Beau had awakened and bloomed from the impact of her confidences, and he opened up and told her about his loneliness as his friends pursued other things, and he felt left behind.

RJ doubted very much her son had told her everything, but hopefully enough. The cutting had stopped, and it was evidenced by his lack of a shirt most of the summer.

Now it was deep into fall, after Thanksgiving, and how was Beau handling his junior year of high school? He seemed his normal self, but was he? Her ex leaving them had contributed to the teen’s loneliness, that she knew.

Maybe she needed to treat him instead of paying a bill. The bills would always be there, but what about her son? He’d be gone in a couple years, probably, and then….

Absently, RJ pulled the wadded heavy brown paper towards her. She picked through it looking over the wrapping until she saw the return address. It was from someone named Shawn in Michigan. Did she know anyone in Michigan? Her ex had once lived there, but Beau’s father was now in Chicago.

Looking more closely at the “To” address angled from the return information, she sighed. This wasn’t even sent to her. It was sent to her address, but to Wyoming, Michigan, not Wyoming, Minnesota. The zip code was almost illegible with water-stained and smeared ink, and shaking her head, she picked up the package.

It was a fruitcake inside a shoe box and wrapped in plastic.

RJ headed for the garbage can, but then paused.

She turned and set the box back on the table. Out of a sideboard, she found tape. Replacing the shoe box into the larger box, she started pulling the brown paper around the packaging. Carefully, she bound the ripped edges together until only the side flap remained. As she was about to close the final seal, she got an idea.

Scribbling furiously on a slip of paper, RJ apologized for the repaired wrapped and assured the receiver of the note, it hadn’t been opened or touched. The fruitcake was still perfectly preserved.

After concealing the note under the flap, RJ taped it shut.

***

At the post office, the worker with eyeglasses too large for her face watched as RJ fumbled with her wallet. “But, I wasn’t supposed to get this package. It was sent to the wrong town.”

“I’m sorry,” the woman behind the counter said. “It’s been opened, so I need twenty dollars and thirty-two cents to send it on to the new address.”

RJ looked at her last twenty and shook her head. It was only a fruitcake, and not worth that much money to begin with. “Why can’t you just forward it?” she asked, fingering the bill protectively. “I didn’t send it to the wrong address. The post office delivered it to the wrong place.”

“The rules state if the package has been opened, it needs to be postage paid to send to the next destination.”

“Fine,” she said, handing over the bill and counting out the change.

“RJ? RJ Gibbs?”

She looked up from her pocketbook. There was a small man waving at her from the doorway to the back of the post office.

“Yes,” she said, recognizing him immediately. It was her letter carrier.

“There’s a certified letter for you,” he said, waving an envelope in the air at her. “Can you sign for it now?”

“Sure,” she said, handing over the last of the change to the postal clerk. “Who’s it from?”

“From the state I believe. It looks pretty official.” He then handed her a tablet. She quickly scrawled her name and took the offered mail.

“Saves me a trip,” he said, retreating back through the doorway.

RJ ripped open the flap and pulled out a letter. Behind it was another sheet as well. Her eyes filled with tears as the words became clear.

It was back child support payments. A very large check from her ex, from Beau’s father, had been taken from his work bonus check.

Enough to pay off her bills. Enough to pay for a decent Christmas.

RJ sobbed silently as behind her the postal clerk tossed the box onto the conveyor belt in back of her.

***

“Do a buddy a favor, okay?”

“I’m supposed to be at Trevor’s by six,” Jeremy said, wrinkling his nose at his coworker. “Besides, it’s on your route isn’t it?”

“I missed dropping it off. Come on, isn’t it on your way home?” Tony pleaded.

Jeremy’s pause was enough of acknowledgement that his burly friend tossed the package at him. He barely caught it and was surprised by the weight of such a small box.

“You’re the best,” Tony said, leaning out of the truck window. Then, without a moment’s hesitation, he raced down the street towards the highway.

“Fuck this,” Jeremy said, plunking the old-fashioned wrapped box on the seat beside him. If he stopped on the way home, he’d barely get a shower in before his date. Looking at the address on the haphazardly-taped top, he saw it was at a place past his apartment building.

“This is not my problem,” he said, picking it back up with one hand and again, surveying its heft. “It’s probably something stupid like a tin of nuts or dried fruit or something. His back hurt just thinking about the number of boxes of sausage and cheeses and packages of toys and tools he’d delivered.

All Jeremy could think about was how lovely Trevor’s eyes were and how his plump ass curved so deliciously in those tan slacks of his. They’d been dating about three months now, and the plan was for him to meet Trevor’s sister and brother-in-law tonight. It was a big deal, a really fucking big deal. Things were getting progressively more serious, and that both excited and worried Jeremy.

He didn’t consider himself a guy who settled. He liked playing the field and the hookup with Trevor had been just that; a casual afternoon delight. Then, they’d seen each other at the gas station and ended up in Jeremy’s bedroom.

He wasn’t exactly sure how that had happened, but for some reason they exchanged numbers that time, and Trevor texted him. Thinking about them made Jeremy smile.

They’d been funny, punny messages using lots of sexual innuendo. But, there’d been some other ones that were warmer, more intimate, and a great deal more special.

Jeremy realized he’d driven by his turn off to his apartment now. Remembering how random their coupling began had distracted him. He might as well drop off the package now. It wasn’t too much farther and—

The blinding light was startling. The crunch of the glass. The topsy-turvy tumbling of the car.

The flash of more light.

The excruciating feeling like his face was being ripped off.

The blood trickling down his chest. The sensation of his arm floating away.

Then darkness.

***

“He’ll be okay. He’s really very lucky,” the doctor said to Trevor. “When a semi-trailer hits you head on, you usually don’t come out of it alive.”

“When I heard what had happened, I thought they’d tell me he was dead.”

“There may be a little scarring on his cheek, but other than a couple of broken ribs and a fractured arm, he’s alright.” The doctor said, and then exited quickly.

A nurse came in and checked the machines.

“Are you his brother?” she asked, smiling at Trevor. “Or significant other?”

“I’m his boyfriend.”

The nurse picked up the chart and scanned it. “You must be serious, because you’re listed as his emergency contact.”

Trevor nodded and swallowed hard. “I guess we are.”

The nurse put the chart back on the stand and looked at her patient. “He’ll be fine.”

“I think he’s waking up,” the man said, his voice strained. The nurse patted his shoulder and left.

“What?” Jeremy asked. He opened his eyes and, at first, the brilliance of the light hurt. Then, leaning over him was a Trevor-shaped shadow, and relief flooded his core.

“What happened?” he croaked.

“You got hit by a truck,” Trevor said softly, pulling the edge of the sheet up and smoothing it on Jeremy’s shoulder. “You’ll be fine though.”

Jeremy touched his bandaged face. “How bad?” He started to cry.

“Not bad at all.” Trevor sat next to him. “You’re going to be okay.” He paused and leaned over.

“I love you.”

Jeremy sighed and nodded.

“I love you too.”

***

Rachel re-read the address and looked at her tablet. The battered package looked rough, but considering it had been through an accident, it looked remarkably whole.

Jumping from her truck, she carried the package up to the front door. She placed it inside the porch and rang the doorbell.

The postal worker started towards her vehicle, when her phone buzzed, just once. Rachel pulled the phone from her pocket and glanced at her messages. Her eyes widened, and she read it again.

Behind her, the front door of the house opened and shut.

Rachel hit a button that simply said My Girl and waited as it rang. When the other person answered, she said quickly, “It worked this time.”

A gleeful squeal came through the phone.

“Yep, I’m pregnant.”

***

“You shouldn’t have,” the elderly woman said into the phone, fingering the wrapping from the package. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“I know how much you love fruitcake,” Shawn said. “I’m surprised it took so long for you to get it. I sent it over two weeks ago.”

“Well, I’ve got it now. So will you be coming over on Christmas day?” his grandmother asked. “I’d love to see you.”

“Of course,” he said. “We can have some hot chocolate and cake. You know, I said that Norwegian prayer you always said when you made it, the fruitcake. I couldn’t resist.”

“I’m happy you remembered. Sounds good,” she said, smiling into the phone. “I miss you.”

“Only a week away now,” Shawn said. “It will be a very Merry Christmas.”

Dark Fruit Cake

1 pound of raisins

½ cup diced apricots

1-1/2 cups water

Soak fruits in hot water for at least a couple of hours. Then add the following when cooled.

1-1/2 cups sugar

¼ butter

2 eggs

2-1/2 cups flour

1 tsp baking powder

1 tsp baking soda

½ tsp salt

1 tsp cinnamon

½ tsp allspice

½ cup chopped pecans or walnuts

Mix together and bake in loaf pan at 350 degrees until done, about 45 minutes to an hour.

For sauce

1 cup sugar

1 cup water

Cooked until golden brown and then remove from heat.

Then add ½ cup rum and ½ cup brandy with 2 sticks of cinnamon, some blades of mace, and a half dozen whole cloves. Let this mixture steep and cool. Leave spices in until mixture is used up.

Soak a cheesecloth in the mixture and then wrap the cake and bathe with some of the liquor. Place in covered container in cool dark place and dowse with liquor at least once a week until cake is saturated.