Note: Once a year, it seems, I become possessed with the inexplicable desire to tell a story as somebody else. Please bear with the footnotes, as they are my "nudge-nudge-wink-wink" that lets you know I'm still here.
Lucy stood in line at the bakery on Main Street, appalled at the scene before her. The shop’s owner, who never had struck Lucy as passably friendly, was now glaring at an gnarled and bent old woman who was ordering a pineapple Danish.
“I
can’t hear you,” the bakery owner snapped angrily at the old woman, who swayed uncertainly
in front of the pastry case. Lucy [1]
gave the woman behind the counter a small smile, as if to say, ‘Take your time and
help the old lady,” but was met with a stony look,
Lucy
almost walked angrily, but was ravenous after her morning workout at the gym
and needed a cookie to make the drive
home – so much for will power. She waited through the rest of the old lady’s
transaction, alternating between wanting to leave the shop and being distracted
by shelves full of festively wrapped cookie baskets for the holidays. When it
was finally her turn, she asked for a dozen fig cucidati, the traditional Italian cookies that the bakery only sold
at Christmastime.
“I
wait for these all year,” Lucy said to the woman behind the counter with a
smile, receiving a half-glimmer of acknowledgement in return, nothing more.
 |
| Freshly ground nutmeg, scraped with a doll-sized grater achieves a spicy warmth. |
Lucy
wolfed one of the cookies down as she drove home to get ready for work. She
thought about her upcoming birthday party, and realized that she had not yet
made a reservation for the Imperial Panda Dim Sum Parlor. Although she had long
resisted using Gather,[2]
Lucy figured initially that it would be a good way to get a head count for the
restaurant. She also began to mentally compile her shopping list for Project
Fruitcake.
Like
most people, Lucy didn’t really like fruitcake as much as the idea of it.
Despite its colorful appearance and ancient lineage as a Yuletide tradition, it
was too much for modern palates. Too old-fashioned, too sentimental, and it took
too long to prepare - kind of like Christmas itself.
Lucy’s
memory of a dark, rum-laden cake that she had tried long ago, along with
endless viewings of contestants wrapping cakes in sheets of marzipan on “The
Great British Bake Off,” impelled her to take on a fanciful project. A few
weeks earlier, she searched online for a version of fruitcake that sounded
tasty, with accessible ingredients and relatively simple preparation, settling
on a recipe for bolo pretu - a Caribbean black fruitcake, flavored
with port wine, rum, and an exotic sweetener that gave it a rich dark color.
Right
before Thanksgiving, Lucy began to macerate dried fruits for the fruitcake in
two large glass jars. She eyed the jars almost daily and flipped them over
periodically to redistribute the rum and port wine that had settled at the
bottom of the jars. Occasionally, she would open one of the containers and
sniff expectantly at the contents, expecting to be bowled over by a potent
alcoholic brew. However, the subtle aroma did not exactly surround her in the
aura of a nostalgic and Christmasy potion.
 |
| Candied orange peel from a kosher market gave the fruitcake an interfaith appeal. It also makes a decadent baker's nosh, with handfuls of 73 percent cacao chocolate chips. |
One
of Lucy’s most favorite holiday tales – along with “The Shop Around the
Corner,” “The Gift of the Magi,” and “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” was Truman
Capote’s “A Christmas Memory.” She
particularly enjoyed the parts where Buddy and his elderly cousin gathered the
ingredients for their cakes, a labor of love that took hours of toil and their
limited resources.
While
Lucy didn’t have anything quite as colorful to look forward to as procuring
whiskey from an irascible old Indian or harvesting and shelling her own pecans,
she did brave the pre-holiday crowds on the road and in the stores, already
frantic weeks before Thanksgiving. Most of the fruit was easy enough to get –
dried cherries, figs, prunes, currants, and raw almonds from Trader Joe’s. The
orange peel, however, posed a challenge.
The
recipe had warned against using the sickly sweet orange peel that is ordinarily
found in supermarkets each year alongside noxiously colored tubs of cherries
and citron sold to make garden variety fruitcake. After culling every gourmet
market on the Westside, Lucy remembered a treasure trove of dried fruits, nuts,
and candies at Glatt Mart[3].
Not wanting to get her hopes up, she drove over and found plastic tubs of lightly
crystallized orange peel, amid the packages of halvah and kosher gummy bears. Ironically,
it was the fragrant citrus peel that made her boozy fruit concoction smell officially
like actual fruitcake.
The
other ingredient that took some effort to come by was the burnt sugar, which is
found in Caribbean markets. A self-professed Luddite, Lucy had to admit that
the Internet came in handy when searching out exotic foods, as it yielded the
discovery of Dat Moi Market in Gardena. The store was a surprising array of not
only Caribbean delicacies like Irish Moss drinks and plantain
chips, but also of pan-Asian and European produce and groceries, as well as
Hispanic delicacies that are now considered as nearly native to Los Angeles. Often,
the ingredients crossed over the boundaries of ethnic cuisines, a fact that
fascinated Lucy. It was indeed, a small world, after all, she thought, as she
munched on a golden-hued Jamaican beef patty, warm from the case on the
checkout counter.
 |
|
Steeping fruit in rum and port, Expected the Ghost
of Christmas Past to float out of the jar, but had to settle for a faintly boozy aroma, reminiscent of the last office party. |
The
pie’s origin was the Cornish pasty, which was introduced to the
Caribbean through British colonialism. Turmeric, originally grown in Southeast
Asia, gave the turnovers a subtle bit of swagger and flavor, while the spicy meat
filling, which reminded Lucy of the XLNT tamales that she used to buy at 7-11
as a kid, was a satisfying complement to the flaky pastry shell.
The
Dat Moi staff who were predominantly Asian, took turns at eating their lunch
out of Chinese bowls on a card table set up inside the back of a large delivery
truck in the parking lot. A makeshift Buddhist shrine, complete with incense
sticks and a plate of mandarins, was hung on the fence nearby. The most
astonishing thing at the market, however, was how friendly everyone was, from
the customers buying okra and Yan Yan cookies, to the butchers and produce men
who occasionally interrupted their trip to the outdoor stockroom to smilingly wave
patrons safely into their parking spaces.
During
the couple of weeks that Lucy’s fruit mixture was steeping – first on her
kitchen table, then in the hall closet, which she later determined provided a
cooler and darker environment – she still had to go to work, to yoga class, to
babysit her nephews, and to contemplate yet another holiday season without a
boyfriend. It was all well and good, going about shopping, baking, and doing
other pleasant chores unfettered by an attention –seeking mate. But despite the distracting build-up to the
holidays, it was at the parties and family gatherings that Lucy felt her
solitude most keenly. Her friends often suggested that she try to meet men
online, but she told them it really wasn’t her way.
“You
just go out with a bunch of different guys,” her friend Martin reassured her.
“See what you like.”
“Somehow,
I’ve only met losers online,” Lucy blurted out, forgetting for a moment that
Martin dated girls that he regularly met online. “I mean, they’re nothing like
you at all. One guy started doing impressions of Rich Little doing impressions.
Seriously.
 |
|
Burnt sugar essence is used in Trinbagonian
dishessuch as Pelau and Brown Chicken Stew, cocktails, and of course, Caribbean black fruitcake. |
“I’d rather meet a guy in person,” Lucy went on.
“You can tell more about them with body language and the way they talk.
Besides, I am constantly rating their grammar online. It’s a real thing with
me. Nothing turns me off like an incorrectly used apostrophe, or when someone
says, ‘expresso’ and really doesn’t know any better.”
Another
thing that really got Lucy was how everyone at work pretended that “Christmas”
wasn’t really happening. The euphemism, “holiday” seemed inadequate to describe
the frenzy of shopping, partying, and eating. Christmas, as it is now
celebrated in the United States, could no longer be thought of as a religious
holiday for the most part, unless one considered the fervent worship of materialism
and bargain hunting. Most of the people that Lucy knew, who had grown up with a variety of religious or atheistic beliefs, went
to holiday parties, gave and received presents, and once in a while, even
decorated an evergreen tree. Denying the existence of Christmas at its most
basic contemporary form was in Lucy’s mind, political correctness gone wrong,
and she resolved to thumb her nose at it.
One
afternoon, Lucy sauntered into the break room at work to make a cup of green
tea. She saw a woman who worked in Martin’s office, whose name she could not
remember, which made the encounter all the more awkward.
“Are
you going to the ‘holiday’ party tomorrow?” Lucy asked her brightly. Old habits
die hard.
“No,”
replied the woman. “I don’t celebrate Christmas.”
“Oh,”
said Lucy, unsure of what to say next. She wished her co-worker a good
afternoon, and scolded herself for not finding a tactful way to ask why the
woman did not celebrate Christmas. Would it have been such a crime to ask?
Would it really have been considered intrusive, or would it have opened up an
honest dialogue about true diversity of beliefs, and harmony that can exist
when people decide to accept and/or honor the ways of others?
 |
|
Panforte, a fruit and nut confection from Siena, was the Kind Bar
of the Crusades.They could have won more converts to Christianity by serving this at Mass, and skipping the Inquisition. |
As
Lucy became more fruitcake-obsessed, she learned that the idea of using preserved
fruits to make a cake or even to provide actual sustenance, was a fairly ancient
and universal idea. She and Martin sampled a panforte [4]that
she had picked up from World Market, a tiny cake of pressed almonds, candied
fruit, honey, and spices. They argued over whether the tiny packet of white
powder that accompanied it was a desiccant to protect the Tuscan confection
during the import process, or powdered sugar to enhance the sweet. The packet
turned out to contain powdered sugar, the fact of which Lucy and Martin were
only satisfied with after sheepishly verifying it on the Internet[5].
Finally,
the day came that Lucy had set aside to bake her fruitcakes. She went to an
early yoga class that morning, and showered at the studio. Hurriedly, she drove
across the parking lot to grab a smoothie at Jamba Juice. As she tripped over
her wool-lined chukkas while climbing hurriedly out of her car, she noticed a
man getting into his truck next to her parking space. He had stopped and was
smiling oddly at her.
Lucy’s
first inclination was that she had parked too close to his truck and that he
could not get in. But she had somehow frozen to her spot and was unable to
speak. He was tanned and a bit creased, but in a good way, like Jimmy Stewart
in “How the West Was Won.” But what was most disarming was the direct way in
which he looked at her.
“Good
morning,” he said, grinning broadly.
“Er,
hi,” stammered Lucy, all too aware of her still-wet hair and flushed face. She
finally got her legs to move and walked into Jamba Juice and ordered a Mango a
Go Go, resisting the temptation to look back at their cars and see if he had
left. He had.
 |
| Adding fruity Elfin Magic (not a euphemism) to the black cake batter. |
Lucy
mentally went through all the reasons why it had been a good decision not to pursue even
a tiny conversation with him: a) his ruddy glow was a result of having enjoyed
a Bloody Mary-filled brunch at the sports bar next door; b) he thought she was
someone else; or c) he was on his way to do the shopping and pick up lattes at
Starbucks for two. She had to concede that none of these were good reasons. “A”
and “b” were stupid reasons not to have spoken, and even if “c” had been
correct, at least she would have taken a chance. It was like that song by the
Waitresses
about
running into a guy all year and not getting a date, but without the happy
ending at the A&P.
Lucy
shrugged it off and went home. There is communion to be found in an activity
like baking, even if it is a bit one-sided. She thought of Capote’s story and
the people that she was going to gift with the product of her labors. In the
story, after spending hours on their fruitcakes, the old woman and the boy gave
them to the most random of acquaintances, from a missionary that had passed
through their rural town to the President of the United States.
While
Lucy’s list was not exactly random, she knew that not everyone on her list
would be able to have a fruitcake. So she factored in those individuals who
would probably be most appreciative, namely those with whom she had shared her goal
to debunk the myth of doorstop-like fruitcakes of Christmases Past. Friends who
were similarly food-obsessed, a few coworkers, and her family, who, at the very
least would be amused by her efforts, made the list. She also remembered that
her history professor at El Mapache Grande Community College had mentioned that
he spent his childhood in the West Indies where his parents had been born.
 |
| Batter up: Paper baking pans make the black fruitcake easy to portion and dresses it up as well. |
Her
favorite story among the many that Professor Smith told in his class was about when
he attended kindergarten in a tiny Antiguan village. His headmaster – who also happened
to be an uncle – had one day, punished his Brooklyn-born nephew with a caning for
mouthing off during a lesson. When the village mayor and the headmaster
strolled the village that evening to bid the inhabitants good night as was the
local custom, the rebellious Smith refused to greet them and climbed up a tree
to hide. His older brother came out into the yard and told him that he had
better shape up or he wouldn’t live to make it back to the U.S., and he
begrudgingly climbed down. Lucy never forgot the story, and decided to reserve
one of her rum-soaked cakes for Professor Smith[6].
The
process of making the actual cakes was deceptively simple, but time-consuming.
One of the benefits of using a recipe that was found online was the ability to
see how other bakers had fared with it. Lucy took their advice with a grain of
salt and the realization that the website’s comments were of course, edited. But
she was encouraged by their unanimous success and the compliments they all
received.
 |
|
Brush with genius:Anointing the baked black cakes
with rum for aging. The fruitcakes, not me. |
The
batter was easy to make, and Lucy held her breath when she added the recipe’s secret
mojo: the burnt sugar that was meant to give the fruitcakes an almost chocolaty
complexity. It did indeed turn the mixture of butter, sugar, and spices a
stylish black-brown shade. She folded in the jars of macerated fruit and
scooped the whole thing into two dozen paper baking pans.
While
no stranger to baking cakes, Lucy was intimidated by the lengthy two-hour bake
time at a very low temperature. She resisted the urge to keep peeking in on
them, and kept busy cleaning up the kitchen, watching the BBC’s “War and Peace,”
[7]and
preparing each of the four six-pan batches so that they could go into the oven
in quick succession.
Finally,
Lucy had 24 loaves of honest-to-God Caribbean black fruitcake scenting her
kitchen. She anointed each cake with two tablespoons of dark rum, and wrapped
them in Ziploc bags. As she doled them out during the last days before Christmas,
she topped each fruitcake with a sheet of rolled marzipan and tiny sugar
snowflake sprinkles and pearls.
The
cakes were heavy, almost over half a pound each, maybe more. As the recipe had
promised, the spices and fruit were balanced by the burnt sugar syrup, which
gave the fruitcakes a chocolaty overtone. Lucy took one to sample at the office.
Anyone under the age of 30 seemed baffled but appreciative, and those who were
old enough to remember what fruitcake was, applauded her efforts. Some of them
actually even admitted to liking fruitcake in general, but were really
impressed by the unusual recipe.
 |
| The Marzipan of Colonialism: Not a Monty Python sketch, but what can happen when we agree to disagree, and come up with new recipes to celebrate. |
Even
as plum puddings now come in microwaveable containers, fruitcake is still an
old-fashioned idea. Apart from the obvious historical tendency for people to
preserve fruit in sugar and make it into desserts like fruitcake, perhaps there
was something more to the recipe, today in the 21st Century. Maybe today,
the idea of creating and sharing something like fruitcake – which in austere,
pre-Dean & Deluca times, was probably considered an extravagance - is a nod to a simpler era, when there was time
to steep the harvest in spirits, shell nuts by hand, and bake cakes instead of ordering
them on Amazon.
Lucy
visited her old stomping grounds at El Mapache Grande on the last day of school
for the term. She found Professor Smith’s office, and upon asking if he was in,
was told by the receptionist that he had stepped out for a moment. As Lucy was
about to step outside to wait, Professor Smith came through the door.
“You
may not remember me,” she began. “But I really enjoyed your class on ‘American
History and Thought.’”
Professor
Smith began to form a smile of recognition. Lucy said shyly, “I made this…
Caribbean black fruitcake… and thought you would enjoy it.”
Lucy
stood there wondering if she had pronounced “bolo pretu” correctly.
“Thank
you,” said the professor. “This was so thoughtful.”
But Professor Smith's words belied the emotions that were playing out on his face. He was silent for a few seconds, but Lucy saw in his expression a look of wonder, of remembering, and of great surprise. It is what we all look for in the days before December 25. It can, at times, be felt in the hustle and bustle, in happy secrets vainly kept, and in moments of true discovery that can occur while performing these festive chores for what seems the umpteenth time.
These are the moments that make us pause and see the possibility of creating a true spirit of goodwill, love, and reverence for those around us. We are prone to actively seeking this vision during what we are told is the Most Wonderful Time of the Year. We tend to miss these moments as they happen throughout the rest of the year. They are most evident when we can maintain our belief in humankind's potential for goodness, and let those near us know that we recognize it in them.
When he
had recovered himself, the old professor recalled what a diligent student Lucy had
been, and asked about what she was doing now. The telephone rang and the voice
of the receptionist broke their reverie. Lucy began to take her leave, and
ventured, “I hope the cake is good.”
“I’m
sure it is,” said Professor Smith. “Anything you touch turns to gold.”
And
for that brief moment in time, Lucy believed [8]him.
[1]
Lucy was the name of my maternal grandmother. Also, my birthday, December 13,
is the feast of Santa Lucia, observed in Sweden as part of the pre-Christmas celebration. The oldest daughter of the household greets each family member
bearing a tray of coffee and saffron buns, while wearing an evergreen wreath of
candles upon her head. We did a lot of wacky things when I was growing up, but
that, unfortunately, was not one of them. It’s never too late though.
[2] My
fake name for a popular website that is meant to faciliatate the process of
inviting people to a gathering. In reality, the site becomes another
narcissistic form of social torture, wherein the host or hostess not only
learns who plans to attend, but also can see how many times their intended
guests have viewed the invitation while waiting for something better to come up
before they RSVP “yes” or “no.”
[3] A
fabulous kosher market on Pico Boulevard, where the truly global nature of Jewish cuisine can be explored.
[4]
Usually made with a thin layer of what tastes like the communion wafer given
during a Catholic mass, panforte, or
“strong bread,” dates back to the Crusades when as now, an army marched on its
stomach. Also reminiscent of a Kind Bar or any of those raw fruit snacks that
are sold as a healthy option to a candy bar. Nice with a cup of coffee or even
better, a glass of wine and a bit of cheese.
[5]
“Lucy” thinks that people are becoming less intelligent because they are losing
a) intellectual curiosity and b) depend on the Internet, not real life, to
learn about, well, real life. Looking up recipes online or writing a food blog doesn’t
count
.
[6] This
is a mostly true story. “Professor Smith” grew up to become a teacher himself,
and although he spared the rod, he meted out discipline with a mixture of tough
love and common sense to his students.
[7] I am
reading “War and Peace,” because that is what bored single people do – show off
by reading the classics that they missed in school, or were too young and
callow to understand the first time. YouTube serves as my Cliff Notes for
this enterprise, and I have to admit it helped in keeping the major characters
organized in my mind. The sight of a young Anthony Hopkins playing the part of Pierre Bezukhov,
with hair and an extra 20 pounds (the series was made in the 1970s) hasn’t hurt
either.
[8]
Happily, this, the best part of the whole story, was true. All the work I put
into the fruitcakes was worth it for what became my “Hallmark moment” of the
season.
If you’ve been patient (or curious) enough to stick
with this attempt at storytelling to get to the end, I wish you all the joy of
Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, or whatever festival you are celebrating this
month. For that matter, I hope that the past year has given you lots of reason
to celebrate, and that 2015 will yield even more reasons to come.
