Fruitcake Season

Do you remember when your family was the center of the world and you didn’t question your role in it?

December 1st generally marked the beginning of fruitcake season in the Connelly household, starting when I was 6 years old. I did not know then that ours was the only house participating. What seemed fun at age 6 was torture 10 years later. The fruitcakes became our holiday gifts to everyone we knew.

Buying 30 pounds each of dyed candied fruit, walnuts, almonds, pecans, currents, and brown and golden raisins was an endeavor for Dad and me the first Saturday the grocers put them out. I was Dad’s chief and only shopping assistant and drink holder on these and all grocery outings. My older sister, Shay, could not be bothered. Gripping his plastic tumbler with both hands, rolling with the car in my unbuckled seat to avoid spills was my weekend sport, taking a sip or two to get it below the brim. Rum and coke was the taste of Saturday mornings, before tumblers had tops. Seatbelts having been removed for comfort, my body was free to sway as needed to keep the tumbler level. Ah, the 1970’s, before MADD and strict roadway laws!

Once all the nuts - with shells - were secured, Grandma Frida (Gram), known by all except Shay and me as Babe, spent every waking moment cracking them and picking out the meat. Gram would be stationed in her cushioned armchair when I woke up, and still there well after dinner each night, her swollen knuckles a part of the sea of nuts. She was 70 years older than I, loyally cracking fruitcake nuts well into her 80’s, at which point it was painful to watch her, her knuckles so mangled, and her eyes clouded. As the years went on, Shay and I did more and more of the cracking and picking, until we eventually did it all. The pecans were the worst, breaking apart when cracked, so soft they avoided the pick too. Almonds were the easiest, a soft shell and hard nut that fell out in one piece. Walnuts had the hardest shell to crack, nearly impossible for Gram, but the reward was that the meat just fell out. Gram kept a pile of tough cases on the side table for me to work on. As we both aged, I kept a close eye on her, jumping in when she was about to mangle her swollen knuckles. “These nuts are for the birds!” was her only complaint.

Throughout a weekend, we would make successive batches, mixing the bourbon and allspice infused batter, fruit, and nuts, and baking 100 fruitcakes in bread pans. Over the course of the following week, staying out of school until complete, we would marinate and wrap each cake. Gram would cut up a white sheet into squares, which would be laid on top of aluminum foil. Then, Sheelagh and I would place a cake on top of the cloth and poke a small steel skewer into it about 15 times. Next, we would suck about ½ cup bourbon into a baster, and fill the holes with it until liquid pooled at the bottom of the cake. Occasional tastes of bourbon made this my favorite phase. The trick was to get the most bourbon into the cake without any of it escaping from the foil. Dad said that unless the cake was soaked with bourbon, it would be dry and taste awful, and could not be eaten for a month, after the bourbon preservative has improved the flavor and texture, and mostly evaporated. By the time the fruitcakes were ready to eat, I was sick by even the thought of them, and I never ate more than a few crumbs. No surprise that straight whiskey, bourbon, and cognac became my favorite adult drinks.

Dad’s job was to keep all the workers moving and happy, solve any issues, and replenish supplies. “Hey, looks perfect!”, or “Doing a fine job, but a little more bourbon on that one,” he’d encourage as he circulated the troops. When I had my fingers in the butter and sugar for a taste, Dad would grab them out.

Dad invited friends to join in the creation. Josie and Uncle Bob always made a few appearances during the month and helped deliver the local fruitcakes. Josie was hands on, taking over a station, working as hard as Shay and I. “I couldn’t have wrapped that better myself, Josie!” She would retort, “I know, you would have to actually do something more than walk around to compete with me, Connelly!” Uncle Bob mostly stood there with a ridiculous grin on his face, laughing at all Dad’s jokes. “We’ve been waiting for you to show up! Get to work!” or “ Don’t just stand there and look stupid, Bob!” You could measure Dad’s love for you by how many jokes he told about you to your face. You could tell how happy Dad was by how many people he had to boss around in the kitchen, a huge smile on his face while delivering orders and wisecracks.

Wrapping began with meeting the two opposite edges of the foil and rolling tiny successive folds over one another until the edges were deep inside the roll across the length of the cake. The ends were sealed in a similar manner. Once all the cakes were encased in foil, they were wrapped in holiday paper and labeled. We were always still finishing Fruitcake Season when winter break started. All of this made me happy to return to school in January. Maybe that was the point? Many of the cakes were driven around town by Dad, Josie, and Bob, and many were mailed in boxes, which we began saving in the spring for the following December. I never heard, “I love the fruitcake, can’t wait to get the next one. I did hear, “Always a great doorstop or gift for someone low on my list, ha, ha!” As I became a teenager, the uncertain reception of our labors made it harder to get out of bed to make and wrap fruitcakes.

When Shay started college out of state, I was 16. Dad and Gram were slowing down, and Fruitcake Season was retired. When Shay returned for the holiday break, she had the dubious idea of making a holiday treat that was less labor intensive - chocolate-covered candies. We decided to do this without adult help. Always one to blindly follow anything directed by my revered older sister, I eagerly jumped in. This was going to be so easy! We mostly made peanut butter balls and chocolate-covered orange peels. For weeks, we stirred endless pots of chocolate on the stove, carefully peeled oranges, scraping the white from the rinds, pulling many all nighters, and only having enough candies for a close circle of family and friends. This experiment was never repeated, nor were the fruitcakes. Within 2 years, I was off to college myself, and Dad was barely getting out of bed before noon some days. Not one to frequent doctors, the cancer kept growing. Fruitcake Season was the biggest and most classic Connelly family endeavor, each of us occupying our quintessential roles, a defining childhood memory for me. I am grateful for this experience of having focused as a tireless team with my family, and wonder if it is possible to recreate today in our fractured world.