To eat a fruitcake, or not.
I guess if you’d rather not have the unadulterated pleasure of an all-American fruitcake, you could try one of the recipes below. But why mess with perfection.
That’s right, I said it. PERFECTION.
Oh, who am I kidding?
*fruitcake sigh*
Taffy needs to sing.
“I’m listening, Taffy. Sing to me.”
Is this a dream, or really really real?
I Go Fruitcake from Taffy McKittrick on Vimeo.
Many days have passed since I snuggled into hibernation in the kitchen cabinet. I dreamed of holidays and family, and everyone was so happy to see me in my dream. By the end of this dream, I was devoured by love and plastic forks, but it was worth it. I had fulfilled my destiny.
Then the scent of chocolate and nasty cream filling began to fill the air, and I awoke. There they were: three “innocent” heart-shaped boxes of chocolate. How will I ever get eaten if holiday chocolates are around?
Not wanting to be associated with such corporate, commercial wannabe’s, I quietly made my way across the counter, only to be followed by the little trio. We look like a love train.
Maybe it’s how I was raised. Maybe its just my manic depression. But since they wouldn’t leave me alone, I smashed all the chocolates to little bits and pieces, and devised a new plan for getting myself some of this Valentine’s Day holiday love. I hope it works.
I’ve been hibernating in one of the kitchen cabinets for a few days now. The darkness feels good.
But Valentines Day is quickly approaching and I may attempt to stoke their cold little hearts once more. This could be the holiday that does it. So, I wrestle myself down and out of this cabinet only to hear my coworkers going on and on about how we’ve now got six more weeks of winter because Phil said so.
It is heart-wrenching to think that these good people will honor a fat woodchuck for just getting up in the morning rather than honor me – who has stood by them for three months now.
How Did the Groundhog Get a Day of His Own?
The lowly groundhog, often called a woodchuck, is the only mammal to have a day named in his honor. The groundhog’s day is February 2. Granted, it’s not a federal holiday; nobody gets off work. But still, to have a day named after you is quite a feat. How did the groundhog come by this honor? It stems from the ancient belief that hibernating creatures were able to predict the arrival of springtime by their emergence.
How much fruitcake would a woodchuck eat
if a woodchuck could eat fruitcake?
Doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it?
Once on Christmas eve,
with one infected fruitcake
the world fell apart.
Found this writer. I love him.
What I realized after reading Mr. Mecum is that repeatedly-regifted, ancient fruitcakes are disastrous. Everyone likes to make fun and constantly repeat that stupid Johnny Carson quote, but this is serious stuff. Old fruitcakes cause zombism. It’s simple. Eat your fruitcake now. Don’t regift it. Do it now.
Bless you, Ryan Mecum. Let’s just eat our fruitcakes before things get scary, right?
Friday, December 18, 2009
It’s A Zombie Haiku Christmas, by Ryan Mecum
Once on Christmas eve,
with one infected fruitcake
the world fell apart.
When the plague arrived
not one place on Earth was safe
even the North Pole.
The sweet Christmas elves
ate from that infected cake
and lost their sweetness.
Zombie Christmas elves
surround Santa’s North Pole home
moaning for his brains.
Santa’s nine reindeer,
the only means of escape,
scream while ripped open.
One choking zombie
has Rudolf’s blinking red nose
glowing through his throat.
As the elves broke through,
they found the back door open,
their meals escaping.
Zombie Christmas elves
chase Santa and Mrs. Claus
under northern lights.
Mrs. Claus falls first
as zombie elves pile up
for their Christmas gift.
Santa turns and looks
as dozens of small zombies
devour his wife.
The ice around her
snaps, breaks, and the pile slides
into the cold sea.
The rest of the elves
who did not fall in the sea
turn to their master.
Zombie elves move slow
but so does a fat Santa
dashing through the snow.
Santa’s one defense,
“Any elves who bit my wife
make the naughty list!”
As Santa slows down,
zombie elves overtake him
for their Christmas meal.
Santa screams in pain
as his bowl full of jelly
rips onto the ice.
He spoke not a word
as he drifted out of sight.
Santa is dead. Good night.
Zombie Mrs. Claus,
trapped under the frozen sea,
waits for the spring thaw.
Buy his books online. Click here.
Seriously?
THIS is better than fruitcake?
My mini fruitcakes and I spent all weekend practicing how they would entice everyone in the office. The plan was to seduce these good ASO folk one by one with the deliciousness of a mini-me.
My little pretties don’t scare anyone. They’re so mini, and cute, and nutty. How could anyone resist?
Once these folk realized their fears were misplaced, the masses would tear my cellophance off. Finally. I would be eaten. Gloriously devoured.
Aha. My plan is working, I think. Save a little room for me, friends. Me – the Big Fruitcake – Me. Wait.
Betrayed By My Own from Ames Scullin O'Haire on Vimeo.
How I hate you, reality.
Instead of these good folk ripping my plastic off and taking their forks to my nutty delights,
they munched little mini-munchies of me, then left.
Without even an over-the-shoulder exit glance.
How I hate you, reality.
Really. Really. Hate you.
Spontaneous procreation. It’s a beautiful thing, if you can stand the smell.
The holidays are over and my manic depression has fully set in. I retreated to the darkness inside one of the kitchen cabinets. Like a grizzly, I just need to rest. For a long time. Maybe all the way until next Christmas.
But there was a rumbling in my gut. And before I could say, “fruitylicious,” out pops five of the most adorable mini-fruitcakes the world has ever seen.
I’m sure no one heard the commotion, or cared if they did, but me and my nutty troop talked all night long. I told them all my stories of being delivered to this ad agency, how no one bothers to care for me.
By the end of the evening, my mini me’s and I had devised a most devious plan: My little lovelies would turn these cold-hearted advertising folk into fruitcake aficionados.
“Dance for them. Sing to them, my little pretties. Do whatever it takes. Make them love me.”
My Little Lovelies from Ames Scullin O'Haire on Vimeo.
We’ll see what happens on Monday. I am an optimistic fruitcake once again.
“Fruitcakes wouldn’t have become a holiday tradition if people didn’t like them.”
Oh, Nicole Hedlund.
You have put a smile on a grumpy old fruitcake’s face, if it can be said that we fruitcakes have faces.
This Saturday, battling the fruitcake hatred eminating from Manitou Springs, CO, Hedlund will be hosting the second annual rally to bring back real fruitcake, 2 p.m. at A Grande Finale Patisserie, 641 Main St. in Louisville, CO.
Check out this awesome article about the event:
Baker Rallies For The Real Fruitcake
The world needs more fruitcake heros.
Thank you, Nicole.