Of all the totemic foods we eat during the holidays, none evokes more professed negative feelings than fruitcake. It's heavy, it's cloying, and, if done right, it'll lay there in the pit of your stomach for days, churning, like the memory of that really creepy relative you only have to see once a year, maybe at Christmas. What's more, hardly anybody likes it. Well, that's the rap, but somebody, lots of somebodies actually, somewhere, must like it because, just like Santa, during the holidays fruitcake is everywhere.
My history with fruitcake is both troubled and storied. The women in my family starting making them before Thanksgiving. They shopped and chopped and baked, and then wrapped them in cheesecloth soaked in spirits, and stuffed them in big round tins to ripen. I can actually recall God-fearing church ladies of my Grandmother's generation asking a trusted source to procure them a pint for the purpose of baptizing the fruitcake. We're talking moonshine whiskey here, people, none of that store bought stuff. It was as if it was somehow less sinful to support the local backwoods distillery, (like the one rumored to be operated by my paternal grandfather), than to purchase a bottle of
Wild Turkey, (which would have necessitated a trip to a liquor store in another county -- ours was dry--at the risk of being spotted), thereby validating the great, demonic, alcoholic empire certain to be the end of us all.
The fruitcake itself was truly nasty stuff, but I did like to be around for a whiff when my mother raised the lid of the tin periodically to douse the noxious mix with more firewater. She used
scuppernong wine, homemade in the kitchen of Sallie Mae Montgomery, a dear friend of my late maternal grandmother. It wasn't bootlegging, but it was close.
Years later, recently orphaned and largely estranged from any extended family, I received an unexpected Christmas gift from an aunt -- a fruitcake, not homemade, but rather a
Claxton Fruitcake, the epitome of everything that gives fruitcake a bad name. Rectangular logs of something that passes for candied fruit and nuts pressed into a dry, almost tasteless, batter the color of moldy cardboard, Claxton Fruitcake was and is the perfect example of a gift best expressed as "it's the thought that counts," (a sentiment that can be taken several ways). As it was, I was so touched to be remembered at all, and gushed so effusively, that every single year thereafter, until her death at 92, Aunt Ina sent me a Claxton Fruitcake. I never had the heart to tell her I threw them up on top of the refrigerator to stay, or that my housekeeper once counted five of them there in various stages of mummification.
To be fair, over the years I have encountered a few quite tolerable fruitcakes. Notably,
Collin Street Bakery in Texas makes an entirely edible version that comes in a very spiffy tin. And then there's icebox fruitcake, an absolutely divine concoction, which, strictly speaking, shouldn't be called fruitcake at all. You don't have to bake it, it tastes almost like candy, and it will keep virtually forever. What more could you want?
A confection really, rather than a cake, my recipe for icebox fruitcake is adapted from "The Lady & Sons Just Desserts" by
Paula Deen. (Who I hate almost as much as I hate fruitcake, but not as much as I hate
Rachael Ray, but that's another post.) Even so, it's very good and very easy to make, albeit a bit messy. (Now's the time to use that plastic apron, if you have one. And careful if you have long hair. Seriously, that marshmallow/milk mixture is hell in the tresses.) I make them in little loaf pans and give them as gifts, (one recipe will make about 4 small loaves), and, gosh darn it, people like them. Or maybe they're throwing them up on top of the refrigerator. No way to really know for sure.
ICEBOX FRUITCAKE1 14-ounce can sweetened condensed milk
1 16-ounce bag miniature marshmallows
1 pound box graham crackers, crushed
4 cups pecan pieces
1/2 of a 14-ounce bag (7 ounces) of flaked, sweetened coconut
1 pound chopped dates
1 16-ounce jar maraschino cherries, drained and cut in half
1/2 cup bourbon or whiskey
Line bottom and side of pan (or pans) with parchment paper. (It helps to cut the paper large so that it overlaps on top of the prepared cake. That way you can lift the cake out of the pan after refrigeration by pulling up on the paper)
Combine graham cracker crumbs, pecans, coconut, dates and cherries in a large bowl, reserving a few cherries and whole pecan halves for use on the top. (I use a food processor to crush the crackers.)
Heat milk and marshmallows together over low heat until marshmallows are melted, stirring constantly as condensed milk scorches easily. Remove from heat. Stir in booze. (I use
Jack Daniels, but any good bourbon or whiskey will do. This isn't the time, however, to be using that bottle of Old Yard Dog that Uncle Vernon left when he went off to prison, because you can taste the booze, however faintly, in the fruitcake.)
Pour milk/marshmallow/bourbon mixture over dry mixture and blend well. (I use my hands. It's sticky and awesome messy, but I can't imagine any other way to do it.)
Scoop mixture into prepared pan or pans and mold it to fit, packing tightly so there are no air pockets. Refrigerate for at least two days before serving. And, this stuff will keep awhile. I often make mine two or three weeks ahead of time. They'll probably last forever, as long as you keep them in the fridge. (Not on top of it.)
This recipe makes one large fruitcake, or several smaller ones.
If you're looking for a showstopper dessert for Christmas that tastes as good as it looks, have I got a cake for you! Seriously, nothing says "Christmas" like a red velvet cake, baked in square pans and decorated to look like the most delectable gift package ever to grace the holiday dessert table.
Baker's Secret), 8-inch square (or round) cake pans and bake at 350 degrees for 25 minutes. Cool in pans for 15 minutes then on cake racks until completely cool.
