Oh no… here she comes!
It’s the arrival of Aunt Zelda, oh so slowly pulling up to the curb, coming to a complete stop, shutting down the old lime-green Impala.
“Laura dear, could you please go get the mail? Might be some last-minute cards out there, and who knows, they might even include cash… for you!” her mother coyly asks, setting the trap, getting out and in front of the developing situation.
Thank God she happened to look outside the window.
And Laura can always use more cash.
Up that sidewalk Aunt Zelda hobbles, oh so slowly, baked goods in tote, and she’s all smiles on this lovely Christmas Eve day.
I got no time for that Laura’s mom thinks, and after all, she’s Tom’s great aunt, not hers, and he’s not even here, he’s called away, out on a last-minute gift quest or so he said, and anyway, Aunt Zelda will be thrilled to have a visit with young Laura. So her evasive actions are easily justifiable. Of course, Laura wont’ be so thrilled but unwittingly she’s already out the door, the ambush set, and now it’s time for Tom’s wife to slip away and lock the bathroom door, to turn on the shower, and luxuriate while become unfortunately and unequivocally unavailable.
“Laura, is that you?” the elderly woman gaily inquires, and she’s stopped right there on the cusp of the porch, old eyes wide and bright, and Laura, who it surely is – there’s no way of altering that particular fact, at least not in the next five seconds – is duly ticked off. There is no way out – thanks a lot, mom!
“Yeah, it is, it’s me, it’s Laura,” she replies with a put-on smile, perhaps condescendingly should it be perceived by those who remain justly cynical but, all the same, it’s a pure joy to her old aunt.
“I thought so… march right on over here and give me a big hug.”
Hesitantly the teenager abides, scrunching her shoulders tight, turning the cheek, and coming in low to meet the diminutive greeter’s grasp and pink lip-sticked peck. A spring bouquet in the dead of winter.
“You’re getting so big, I can hardly believe it’s you.”
“Well,” Laura responds, backing away, reeking now of that perfume, “that’s what they tell me. I just keep growing. I can’t seem to help it.”
Laura is still smiling, grinning, biting her lip, knowing what’s inside that brown paper sack.
“Is your father available? Or your mother? I’d love to drop in and chat with them for a spell.”
No way Laura can nail her father on this one but she could certainly hang her mom out to dry. And she ought to. She really ought to… touché la chienne, right? But she just recently came off of a two-week long you’re so grounded kinda thing. And it’s Christmas. And mom buys all the presents, she doles out the cash, she pretty much runs the whole shebang around here.
“No. Dad’s been gone all morning and I don’t know where mom is… in fact, I was just getting ready to leave myself.”
Aunt Zelda’s disappointment is palpable. It’s like come the cold clear morning when all of those blown-up figurines from the night before have all gone flat, the Santa Claus and his reindeer and an elf or two, when all their air has been let out.
It’s like total deflation.
“Oh… I see.” The smile is momentarily gone, this fresh realization has been processed and suddenly accepted, and just as quickly the smile reappears.
Laura actually sees it. She thinks it, she feels it, she lets it soak in. She has learned something right here on the spot, something small and fleeting, something about always looking at the bright side of things and keeping your chin up. About attitude. She won’t think too much about it, she hasn’t the time, but it’s there now… this small life lesson will always be right there.
Maybe one day she’ll dig deep and use it when the need arrives.
And it will.
“Perhaps you could tell them I dropped by and give them this.”
Aunt Zelda extends a white-gloved hand holding the brown paper sack.
“Oh yes, I will, in fact I’ll run it back inside before I go.”
That poor old woman is so sweet, she’s so dependable, loyal, a creature of habit – and oh so lonely.
“Merry Christmas, Laura,” she offers, still smiling, and then she turns and hobbles away.
“Merry Christmas,” Laura responds in kind, and she means it, for once she really does, and more than a twinge of guilt arises from within. She is both somewhat ashamed and relieved. From the front porch she waves with a sad smile, a true one, as Aunt Zelda putters away down the street.
Oh so slowly…
But it’s now official: Aunt Zelda’s annual Christmas fruit cake is in the house!
*****
A few hours later, Tom walks in through the door from the garage and there it is. The brown paper sack, quite anonymous, unspoken for, somebody’s afterthought and someone else’s never-to-be-considered.
But he, the man of the house with plastic sacks of his own drooping from both arms, has instantly considered it. He sets his load down and peeks inside for confirmation.
Yes, he thinks to himself with a wry smile, it has arrived, and although everyone else feigns disdain it would be a notable setback if the thing never appeared. At least it would be for him. Christmas means traditions, most of them grand and desirable, yet perhaps some of the more subtle permutations or outright omissions might be the ones you’d actually miss the most.
Christmas without Aunt Zelda’s fruit cake? Nah… ain’t gonna happen!
Tom hears his wife and his daughter coming down the hall and so sneaks around the corner with his plastic sacks and hides them in a drawer.
“Looks like I missed somebody,” he says upon his return with a snicker and a nod as they both enter the kitchen, and Laura giggles while her mother simply sighs.
“That you did,” his wife replies, “but thankfully Laura was right here. She took control of the situation, had a brief visit with your aunt, even gave her a spirited hug from what I hear,” and she offers that last part with her bright-eyed patented faux-amazement gaze.
Her mother can be so mean.
“Yes, I was… right here. And no, mom wasn’t. So I did it. And I hugged her. Got kissed. And there it is,” she also confirms with a nod and the unfurling of a pointed finger.
All three turn to stare at the brown paper sack and it really isn’t much like three wise men gazing upon the brightest star. And yet they ponder, they surely stare in wonder.
*****
Aunt Zelda’s Olde English Fruitcake – A dark, rich, well-spiced old-fashioned English style fruitcake that can be made weeks in advance of Christmas. Anticipated by many, cherished by few, but always delivered with a cup of cheer and boundless love.
Ingredients: 1 ¼ chopped dried prunes , 1 ¼ cups chopped dates, 1 ½ cups chopped dark raisins, 1 ¼ cups golden raisins , 1 ¼ cups currents, ¾ cup butter (or a full cup if your recipient needs some fattening up), 1 cup dark brown sugar, ¾ cup molasses, ½ cup coffee liqueur, orange zest and juice of 2 oranges, 1 cup chopped glace cherries, 1 cup candied citrus peel, 1 ½ cups toasted pecans roughly chopped, 2 teaspoons allspice, 2 teaspoons cinnamon, 2 teaspoons powdered ginger, 1 teaspoon cloves, 2 teaspoons nutmeg , 3 tablespoons cocoa, 3 eggs, 1 ¼ cups all-purpose flour, ½ cup ground hazelnuts or almonds (Aunt Zelda always goes with the local almonds except that one year when the local almonds were bad), ½ teaspoon baking powder, ½ teaspoon baking soda.
Instructions: In a large saucepan melt the butter over medium heat and add the raisins, dates, prunes, currents, brown sugar, molasses, spices, coffee liqueur, orange zest and juice. Bring to a gentle boil and very slowly simmer for ten minutes. Remove from heat and allow to cool for 30-45 minutes. Once cool stir in the beaten eggs. Sift together, flour, cocoa, baking powder, baking soda.
Add the ground nuts and fold through the boiled mixture. Fold in cherries, citrus peel and pecans. Pour into a prepared baking pan. You can decorate the top with additional pecan halves, cherries etc., if you like. Aunt Zelda usually does.
Bake at 300 degrees F for 1 ½ to 2 hours depending upon the size of your pan. Zelda’s takes the full two hours in a 10-inch spring form pan. The cake should feel firm to the touch at the center and a wooden toothpick inserted into the center should come out clean. Very important: The cake should be cooled completely in the pan on a wire rack before removing. Don’t blow it now.
At this point you can poke small holes in the top and bottom of the cake with a fork and pour on 4 ounces of dark rum or your favorite whiskey, half on the top, wait ten minutes, then flip it over and pour the remaining half on the bottom.
Soak several layers of cheesecloth in additional rum if you like and wrap completely around the cake, then cover with several layers of plastic wrap and store in a cool spot. Remember, cats and dogs cannot resist the enchanting bouquet so please take appropriate precautions.
When serving, you can add a layer of marzipan or if you have decorated the top with fruit and nuts, feel free to brush with a simple glaze of equal parts water and sugar boiled together for about 10-15 minutes.
And most importantly…. enjoy with good company!
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
*****
No more than half an hour later, a friend of Laura’s drops by with fresh gingerbread men cookies.
“Mom and I just baked them,” Debbie says and she’s beaming, she’s proud, the aroma is wonderful and the act of giving at this time of year can be so rewarding if not downright empowering.
In fact, the act must be reciprocated.
Tom is upstairs. So it’s safe. Debbie can’t stay long, she has her own family obligations to meet, but before she leaves it is at once decided. The girl cannot be allowed to leave empty-handed.
“Here,” Laura’s mother offers, “something from our family to yours.”
Debbie looks inside the brown paper sack.
“Oh,” she responds with surprise, “a fruit cake. How… lovely.”
Her husband will never miss it, of that Laura’s mother is certain, but in her own heart Laura isn’t so sure.
“Merry Christmas,” Laura meekly says to her friend as she walks out the front door and down that same sidewalk.
“Merry Christmas,” Debbie responds with a skeptical smirk, but at least the mutual exchange is now complete.
*****
Debbie can appreciate the gesture. She and Laura are best friends and their parents seem to get along. So it’s a purely natural thing… you give and you receive, you take, you must, and sometimes these selfless swaps are a little uneven, sometimes you give a full-sized Snickers and you get a mini lime tootsie roll. But it all evens out in the long run, or so they say. Pleasantly detached and fully satisfied, Debbie still retains the smell of those delectable gingerbread men in her nose as skips down the street, around the block, up the driveway and then inside her own front door.
There’s a bench that sits just inside that door. A place to toss coats and scarves and anything else no longer required now that the individual has returned home and is safely ensconced within.
And that’s exactly where that brown paper sack ends up.
A half hour later the doorbell rings. Debbie’s father, Glenn, who has just set a pot of cider ablaze atop the stove ventures quickly into the foyer. An early arriving guest, perhaps? But no. Outside the short day has already surrendered to dusk, these winter twilights can be beautiful yet so fleeting, and a delivery guy stands there in new shadows with a package in hand.
“Oh, hey, please step on in and place it on the bench if you could. My hands are a little… well, sticky.” Glenn smiles and steps aside, picking up that odd brown paper sack sitting there right in the middle of the bench in order to make plenty of room for the new package.
The delivery guy sets it down with a thud. What a job, Glenn thinks, still working hard even late on Christmas Eve, and he suddenly he feels blessed, spoiled, maybe even a little embarrassed.
And then he gets a brilliant and charitable idea. He looks inside that brown paper sack.
“For you,” he offers proudly with arm extended. Even though Glenn immediately decided that, at first glance, the sack’s contents were something he could undoubtedly live without, he feels quite clever to have both given and to have discarded at the same time. That’s called efficiency.
The delivery guy ventures a look inside. “Oh… yeah, thanks, much appreciated,” he mumbles and then he stomps off into the night with the brown paper sack.
One more delivery to make.
Finally.
It’s been a long haul, a busy five weeks or so, but at double the money and all the extra hours he’s not complaining. Not at all.
But what about that brown paper sack over there? The one with the fruit thing in it? He could just leave it inside the van and then toss it out in the morning. But as he ventures to the back of the truck to retrieve that last package, he spies a trash can near the front door.
I’ll just toss it in there and then make this last delivery.
But when he arrives at the trash can he sees that it’s already full. In fact, a few items have already fallen out and onto the ground. At this point it’s tempting, to be totally honest, to just go ahead and toss it but the man has a conscience and is committed to his job and its creed. A dedicated delivery man never adds to the clutter.
Can’t just toss it here…
With the brown paper sack still resting atop that last package he shuffles along the pathway and up the front porch. Once there he sets down the heavy load and rings the doorbell. The wind whips through the trees, all those lights twinkle and glow. He rings the doorbell again and then what else can he do? With duties satisfactorily completed, he once again drifts back into the night leaving that brown paper sack sitting there atop the package.
He can already taste the spiked eggnog.
*****
So yeah, I’m just a stupid fruit cake. I’m the butt of jokes, the bane of the holiday season, basically just your dependable trounced-upon yuletide artifact. Who wants a chunk of hard dry fruit cake when they can have a nice warm cinnamon roll? Or a gingerbread cookie, although if you ask me, those lil bastards are way overrated. It’s hard being me, I’m nutty, I’m fruity, I tend to make people fat and gaseous. And then there are those who use my name when they want to disparage another fellow human being… like, “Forget about that guy… he’s a fruitcake!”
That is so demoralizing.
Here’s the deal: once you get a bad reputation, whether deserved or not, it tends to stick like day-old molasses to a cold spatula. But it’s unfair, unwarranted, and I would only ask that next time one from my gang makes its way onto your Christmas table you reconsider and give it a nice firm squeeze. Go ahead… cut yourself a healthy slice and freely ingest.
I fuckin’ dare ya!
*****
The car moves slowly down the street. Too slowly. Any neighbor who might spot it out there would be justified in being suspicious. And there are a few, they do stop and watch the car until it reaches the end of their block and gradually turns, and maybe they should call the cops but they don’t.
For this is a night of giving, of displaying gratitude and even neighborly trust.
This is Christmas Eve.
This is a night to believe.
So proceed to offer your charitable belief and ye shall probably be well-bitten in your stockinged-ass come Christmas morn.
The car turns down another street and then slows to a stop. A possibility has just revealed itself. Up there on that dimly lit porch. The driver glances ahead, looks to both sides, checks his rear view mirror. With the car still running, idling in neutral, nastily percolating low like an old cat fighting back a hairball, he vacates and hurriedly scampers across the grass and onto the porch. With head down and ski mask applied, he grabs that package along with the brown paper sack on top and then he runs.
Much later, after he locates a dark alley where he can open up the box and wallow within the discovery of his latest acquisition – a pressure cooker deluxe – he considers the woeful brown paper sack.
So what have we got here? Damn. A frickin’ fruit cake. What I wouldn’t give for a warm cinnamon roll or one of them funny little gingerbread guys instead.
Without a second thought he tosses the sack into a dumpster.
*****
“So where is it… where’s the fruit cake?”
Tom is agitated.
“The last time I saw it, it was sitting right there on the kitchen table.”
His wife speaks the truth but she’s also thinking uh-oh.
“Well it’s not there now.”
“No… I can plainly see that. Laura,” she sings out into the living room, “Laura dear… have you seen Aunt Zelda’s fruit cake?” she asks with a crooked smile and a twitchy wink.
“You gave it to Debbie, remember?”
Oh damn Laura’s mother thinks. The kid can’t take a clue. Or doesn’t want to. You are so grounded… again.
“What? You gave it to Debbie? You mean you just gave Aunt Zelda’s fruit cake away?”
Unloaded is more like it.
“Come on, Tom – I couldn’t send poor Debbie away without something in hand. Not after receiving those wonderful gingerbread cookies. And besides, it’s not like you were ever going to eat any of it, right?”
“Well, I don’t know…. there’s a… there’s a first time… make that a second time for everything… usually. I guess I just like knowing that it’s there.”
Oh – right… you just like knowing that it’s there even if you’re never going to eat a single bite out of it? I guess it’s kind of like how you like knowing that the lil bottle of Viagra is there, even though you have assured me that you don’t really need it either. You just like knowing that it’s there, riiiiight?
“Well, it’s gone now. I’m sorry, honey – here, have a gingerbread man.”
“I don’t want a fucking gingerbread man. I want my fruit cake.”
And that is not going to be, not on this night, not this year, but there’s always next year, God willing. As long as Aunt Zelda is allowed to roam this mortal coil in her quest for joyous affinity, then rest assured all ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay nor discard.
*****
It’s fifteen minutes past midnight.
It’s dark. It’s cold.
All is calm and all is quiet.
Dwight and Sally find themselves under the overpass among the soggy cardboard dwellings and the bedded weeds and the trash bag rain gear.
They are hungry. They are without heat.
As dreaded as it might typically be, on a night like this that proverbial lump of coal doesn’t sound so bad right about now. Especially four or five lumps and a handy bic lighter. Something to burn, something to generate heat.
Huddled together they venture across the boulevard, across a tundra of icy pavement, down dark alley caves not so much in search mode but more as an effort to escape. They don’t exactly yearn to be fed or to be warmed. They just don’t want to starve or freeze to death.
Anybody got a problem with that?
“Maybe that one has something in it,” Sally says in a teeth-clicking chatter. She nods toward a huge trash bin wedged into a bleak corner.
“I got one more in me, just one more,” Dwight replies, and he’s tired and bruised and maybe at some point he will simply pass out and then it might become morning… now that would be a true Christmas blessing.
Over the side he pulls himself up and then he plunges within. It’s one last dumpster dive and he comes up once again with nothing. Set adrift in discarded filth, cast out upon a sea of trash, and there’s not one agreeable morsel that he can claim as a possible source of sustenance.
But there is a brown paper sack.
A half hour later, after the entire loaf of sheer Christmas magic has been consumed, Sally takes out her I-phone. Although horribly scuffed and with little juice left it’s the one thing she possesses that still works, it’s the one thing her poor parents keep active so that she can at least get back in touch with them should she ever want or need to. For her parents still maintain hope, especially this time of year.
But her communication will not be with them tonight.
Maybe tomorrow but not tonight.
Sally shines the phone light onto the large sticker still adhered to the now-twisted brown paper sack:
With Love, from your Aunt Zelda
PS: Call or text me some time, I would love to visit 399-1006
Sally punches in those numbers, she types a single sentence, and then she presses send. And it’s a tiny miracle, this instant gratitude sent spiraling into the thankless beyond, it’s an electric spark of love from one needy heart to another.
*****
Zelda wakes up early that Christmas morning. Of course she’s all alone and she should be sad, no one could possibly hold it against her if she was, but then nope, not her, she all-smiles again, she’s Aunt Zelda and that woman is like crazy happy. It’s her natural mode of existence. It’s Christmas morning and the sun is shining and as long as it does there’s always possibility, there’s always hope. And yet just imagine her sudden delight when later that morning she picks up her phone and reads that single sentence:
Thank you for saving my life tonight Aunt Zelda. Merry Christmas!
A healing bounty, that Olde English fruitcake, a nourishing soul cake which can bring warmth to the coldest of nights. Anticipated by many, cherished by few, but always delivered with a cup of cheer and boundless love.
I posted a link to the story at the TC Boyle web site and the gentleman responded himself:
Damn… I knew something was missing. Will pass on to Aunt Zelda!