My inspiration for this post came from my dear, longtime blogging friend, Debbie @ Musings by an ND Domer's Mom, who is not only a gifted...
Now that the holidays are upon us, I thought I'd share a post about a traditional holiday eat -- fruitcake.
Last Tuesday, while grocery shopping, I walked by the bakery area to take a peek at all the delectable holiday desserts. And boy, you should have heard me. I was actually verbalizing my mouthwatering “Ooooo's” and “Aaaaaah's” as if I was experiencing some type of erotic stimulation.
That is, until my eyes spotted the FRUITCAKE.
And then suddenly my smile turned into a look of horror because it was like abruptly coming face to face with Hannibal Lecter.
It immediately transported me back to a Thanksgiving Day in my childhood, when I must have had the flu or something, because I remembered eating a piece of fruitcake and then spontaneously throwing it up.
Do you have any idea how delightful it felt to have dried fruit and nuts projectile out of my mouth and nostrils as I leaned over a toilet bowl?
Yes, it was truly one of those special Thanksgiving Day Paul Anka Kodak Moments that will be etched in my memory for as long as I live.
And the odd thing about this is that I’ve never been fond of fruitcake. So I don't know why I ate a piece that day. Other than perhaps thinking that maybe I'd suddenly like it?
I've always found fruitcake not only ugly to look at but also disgusting in texture.
Eating fruitcake is like eating a piece of Styrofoam that’s had plastic pieces of dried up fruit and nuts hammered into it.
I mean, does anyone know this for sure, but is fruitcake purposely designed to be STALE? It tastes like it's been sitting out in the open-air for three and a half months. Therefore, why do they bother packing it in an airtight tin can to keep it fresh?
To me, fruitcake is sensory overload. Between the look, texture and taste, there is just too much going on for me to handle all at once.
Another reason I hate fruitcake has to do with my cantankerous Italian grandmother (my father's mother), who always had a fruitcake displayed on a buffet table in her dining area during the Christmas holidays. Her house always smelled like mothballs, and all her furniture was covered in plastic.
She had such a warm and inviting home.
Introducing Nanny Carnavil...
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So as you can tell from this post, I'd rather eat a box of thumbtacks than fruitcake.
I seriously think they should reserve fruitcake for anyone on death row as their last meal.
Between the memory of upchucking fruitcake on that one particular Thanksgiving Day, and the Christmas memories of my least favorite Italian grandmother who reeked of the Estee Lauder perfume, Youth Dew, is it any wonder I hate the sight of fruitcake?
Nanny Carnavil: "Ronnie, would you like a piece of fruitcake?"
Me:
🎄Happy Holidays, y'all! 🎄💗
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