Saturday, December 23, 2006 In defense of the Fruitcake By J. Guillen Kokseng
THERE are as many jokes about fruitcakes as there are varieties.
Fruitcake is one of the most personal of cakes. One either…loves it, or hates it; prefers all-fruit to a more cake-like type; prefers the cake saturated with spirits, or the spirits in the background. I confess I absolutely love fruitcake, and if my diet allowed, I`d probably have it everyday with a cup of robust coffee, different kinds of cheeses, and tangy, salty ham. In my search for the ultimate fruitcake, I have tasted some of the best and worst of its kind. From the sublime Irish fully-loaded cake that left me and my companions mellow to the run of the mill, store-bought variety (which, oddly enough, tastes like sawdust). I have even tasted a Filipinized version which consisted of banana cake brushed with spirits, and topped with glazed pineapples….Yeeeech!!!
To me, the fruitcake is not merely a cake. It symbolizes age-old tradition, and carries with it many fond memories. As a young girl, growing up with a large extended family in my grandparents homestead-style home, I always knew when the holiday season began. One morning in September, my older brother and I woke up to wondrous smells emanating from the kitchen, and the buzz of many hands at work. We`d creep into the kitchen and find legs of ham cured and hanging from the high wooden beams. The smell of spices (cinnamon, nutmeg, all-spice), coupled with raw molasses, butter, dates, walnuts, almonds, pecans, glazed fruits and sultanas filled the thin morning air. And, oh yes, the heady smell of quality brandy in soaking syrup. We`d watch in fascination as the womenfolk, muttered, mixed, hummed and occasionally laughed until yaya Candi (short for Candelaria) found us barefoot and still in our PJs looking on. Then we were shoed away to get ready for school.
By late November, we`d have a tree trimming day. My cousins, uncles and aunts would talk about getting the best pine tree. Everyone would put in their two cents worth, while consuming large amounts of coffee or spirits. It was often hilarious watching the menfolk, cutting and trimming the tree to fit into the sala with my father barking orders and directions. More often than not, we`d have a large lopsided tree filling up almost one wall of the sala for Christmas. The women would be gingerly unwrapping glass Christmas balls, threading them and hanging them with care. And still others would be opening crates of lanzones from Mambajao, grapes, walnuts and boxes of apples and oranges. With a cacophony of noise, it was a wonder we didn’t go deaf. By midnight, everything would be as it was meant to be, the tree up and lit, and the assortment of food laid out on the long wooden dining table.
We would gather around it to feast and talk of the days’ labors. The platters of cheese with wine, fruits and nuts, ham and yes, fruitcakes would be passed around. For a moment, there would be an appreciative silence as we savored our first bites. I remember my mother’s teasing admonition “don’t gobble down your cake, take a moment to hold it in your tongue and appreciate the marriage of all those ingredients before swallowing”. I can still hear my father’s sudden bark of laughter, my uncle Ismael laughing so hard tears were running down his cheeks, and the general mirth of my kin gathered around the table. As our guest slowly depart and the lights dimmed, I could see my parents, now long gone, slowly dancing to the flickering lights of the Christmas tree and my father softly singing Ramona to my mother.
To this day, whenever I receive a gift of quality fruitcake, I go into my routine. First, I sniff the box to savor the spices and spirits, next I open it, gaze at the glossy colorful topping and lay out the cake on a platter. I then take out my thinly sliced keso de bola, and since I`m not really very fond of wine (Philistine that I am), I make myself a good strong brew, and of course thinly slice ‘the queen of cakes’, the fruit cake. As I sit at my wooden table facing the bay window, I take my first nibble of the fruitcake, close my eyes (thank God this time it is good cake), and the memories come rushing right back. I hear the voices and laughter of long ago, I see the beloved faces of my youth and I know that the spirit of Christmas still lives on in the hearts and minds of men as it does in mine.
Maybe tradition is becoming passe in this modern world of ours, but I know there are still a few of us who honor and treasure them. To them I say, “Seasons Greetings we few. We happy few.”
