Summary

Alison Acheson shares her experience of making fruitcake with her mother, a tradition that evolves with time and incorporates a generous amount of rum, reflecting on the joy and wisdom found in the process.

Abstract

Alison Acheson's narrative revolves around the annual ritual of crafting fruitcake with her octogenarian mother. Despite the common disdain for fruitcake, Alison's family recipe, perfected over decades, defies the stereotype of the dessert being dry and unpalatable. The process is a testament to the importance of details, such as the infusion of dark rum and the careful mixing of spices. The fruitcake, which changes slightly every year, serves as a metaphor for life's unpredictability and the acceptance of change. Alison's mother's adaptability in the kitchen mirrors her approach to life, and the fruitcake-making experience is enriched by the passing down of culinary wisdom and the shared anticipation of tasting the cake as it matures with rum. The tradition brings people together, as evidenced by Alison's friend's enthusiastic response to the prospect of trying their homemade fruitcake.

Opinions

The author acknowledges the widespread dislike for fruitcake but argues that most people have never tasted a truly authentic, well-made fruitcake.
The inclusion of dark rum is a significant and enjoyable aspect of their fruitcake recipe, as emphasized by the author's mother's liberal use of it.
The act of mixing spices before adding them to the batter is seen as a joyful and possibly meaningful step in the recipe.
The recipe is not static; it evolves year by year, reflecting a philosophy of embracing change and the variability of life.
The author equates the unpredictability and variety of making fruitcake to the experience of having a fulfilling sexual relationship, suggesting that both require openness and adaptability.
The tradition of making fruitcake is cherished and has become a social event, bringing together family and friends in anticipation of sharing the finished product.

Making the World’s Best Fruitcake With My Mother

Rum and time

My 87-year-old mother; photo courtesy of the author

Yeah, I know: you hate fruitcake. And ‘hate’ is not too strong a word. ‘Hate’ might not even begin to cover it, in fact.

Say “fruitcake” and you’ll get a reaction

Most people have never experienced real fruitcake; their association with the brick-like seasonal offering has been of the commercial sticky, dry, and generally miserable type. This is just sad.

Yo ho ho and a bottle

My mother is a born-again Christian, who has never entered the doors of the liquor store. But some years ago when I brought over a bottle of dark rum and gently suggested she immerse the fruit with a cup of it, she did. This year, after a couple of days, she poured in the rest of the bottle! I swear she was hiccuping when we were mixing the batter.

This week I overheard her sharing the amount of rum with her aunt, recently turned 100, and far north in the snow of Kapuskasing, Ontario. My mother calls her when I am visiting, so we can both talk with her.

I love the sound of her faraway soft voice, and the moment when she switches from French to English; it does take her a couple of minutes with sadly-unilingual me. When Mom mentioned the rum, she did an intake of breath, and then said, “Yes! The walnuts, after five days… ohhhhhh…”

For the past six weeks, we’ve been having a wee taste of cake, and commenting on the changes each week has brought about since we made it in late September. If you haven’t made yours by now, get on it: there are only seven or eight weeks left.

Wisdom

My mother has this, and it is all in the details.

the spices; photo courtesy of the author

Mixing the spices, together, before adding to the large mix — this, I suspect, is just for the sheer joy of fragrance. But perhaps there is something else my mother knows. Regardless, I follow her directions.

But her directions change. Every year is slightly — or even dramatically — different! Note the changes in these two recipes. More than once, I’ve tried to capture her knowledge, but at the end of the day, or years, or decades, it is a fluid thing. You look at these, you look at your own recipe. You experiment.

Note the date — 1971; photo courtesy of author

…and my mother moves on to rum, 2013; photo courtesy of the author

Some years ago I bought a sizable dehydrator. I make killer granola in it (it cannot burn, unlike in the oven!) and my mom asked for me to dry fruit in it, to be free of the toxic preservatives in commercially prepared fruit. I dried home-grown figs, as well as pineapple (not homegrown!), and all sorts of fruit.

It’ll never be the same twice and is always good. Rather like sex with a great partner, it requires openness. (Yes, I just said that in a conversation about fruitcake. If nothing else, maybe that will change your mind about the seasonal brick.)

There has yet to be a “bad” year.

But there has to be acceptance that each year yields change. The fruitcake mirrors the year, and is part of the acceptance piece that makes for an eased life; if you don’t accept what life offers, it can be a constant sense of battle. Give in. Make the cake.

Here, mixing the fruit and nuts, with the spoon handle; photo courtesy of the author

Each year, I pick up some new bits from Mom, and this year, what stood out was her advice to turn around the wooden spoon to stir, and use the handle end, not the “head” end. It will slide through just so, and not get caught. It’ll truly MIX.

Say fruitcake, and…

I’d booked a lunchtime with a friend before going to Mom’s to bake, and I mentioned where I was going. “Fruitcake,” I said. “With my mom.”

Her eyes shone. I’m so used to the Other Reaction, that I didn’t grasp.

But she said, “Really? You’re making fruitcake?”

“Yes,” I said, preparing for the usual.

“Can I come and visit, and have some?” Then she added, “Someday,” as if I might say no. “I always think I’m the only one who likes that stuff.”

It’s a date

My mother has given her resounding “yes,” and it’s on the calendar, for just the time when the rum has truly done its part… if we haven’t devoured it in our weekly testing sessions.

Merry, merry!

Alison Acheson is the founder of The Unschool for Writers, a fun and useful newsletter on Substack! Her most recent book is a memoir of caregiving, Dance Me to the End — Ten Months and Ten Days With ALS.