Advent Calendar of Christmas Memories: Fruitcake

Alright, with all finals in and while firmly committed to NOT looking at my grades 'cause I just don't wanna know, I think I'll (quite belatedly) start contributing to the Geneabloggers Advent Calendar.

First up, Dec. 14: Fruitcake

What do I know about fruitcake? Not much I'd never even seen a fruitcake, much less tasted one, until I was in college. In college I worked at a student-run, on-campus grocery store (Vital Vittles), and my junior year, I believe, we sold fruitcake. Or, rather, we tried to. Despite the display case right next to the register, they just wouldn't sell. Apparently fruitcakes are not a hot commodity among the 18-22 year old "cramming for finals" set. Any time I noticed that any at all had sold I was surprised, and the hopes we'd once cherished of actually selling them all diminished as Christmas break grew nearer.

My roommate and I bought one, partly as a joke, to serve at our Christmas party. It didn't sell there, either. It seems our friends prefer cheese and crackers with their booze. I tasted a piece, but it seems I prefer cheese and crackers, too.

I have no family connection to fruitcake, but apparently a friend of mine does. Two years later, I came home to find that a different roommate, in a different apartment, had made a fruitcake and was apologizing for having used some of my ingredients or something (I didn't mind). But really, Em, a fruitcake? Why? Her family had a recipe, and their fruitcake was a much-loved holiday tradition. There was something about sitting in beer for a month, or being soaked in beer and then sitting for a month. . . I dunno. She was making it then, at our house, because it had to sit for quite some time before being served, and she'd only be back at her parents' house a few days before Christmas. I tried a piece. It wasn't chocolate, so it's not exactly my preferred holiday (or any time) dessert, but it was quite good. I do think I could be enticed to eat fruitcake if it were that kind of fruitcake, rather than the plastic-wrapped bricks of ickiness that were my first experience therewith.