A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Fruitcake

This year, I tried especially hard to get back to my roots for the holidays. I, like Paul, have reservations about what the holidays have become. I abhor chintzy decorations, cheesy versions of holiday songs, and marquise lighting. So, last Sunday, I called me mum and asked for the traditional Fruit Cake recipe. Shunned and welcomed in equal measure in our family, the Fruit Cake has been passed down for more than four generations. The original recipe calls for ingredients that aren't readily available in most grocery stores. Fortunately for me, Crisco makes an adequate substitute for lard.
So, I began preparing said Fruit Cake on Sunday afternoon. This was a long process and involved many kitchen utensils and bowls. Great-great Grandma's kitchen must have been bigger than mine. You must understand, I was very excited about this Fruit Cake. That's why it's capitalized.

What I should mention right about now is that for the last few hours, I had been developing quite a pain in my abdomen--and the same type of pain that I had felt six years ago when I was in the hospital.
As I was nearing the moment when dry ingredients met wet, I doubled over in pain and said to James, "I think I need to go to the hospital." So off we went.

And so I stayed until Tuesday afternoon, after convincing the doctor that I was feeling well enough to go home. First meal after days of jello and beef broth? Grilled cheese and tomato soup. And Ben&Jerry's.












This was after two doses of Demerol, innumerable doses of Dilaudid (and several accompanying stupors, many of which were admittedly welcomed), steroids, four bags of antibiotics, and many many bags of Saline.











And a CT scan. With IV contrast AND watery drink contrast. And many doctors asking me if I'm allergic to any drugs (how many times do they need me to say "morphine"?).


I was dreading the thought of another sick holiday. It seems that every Thanksgiving, Christmas, or both, I'm sick with something.

...so James and I went to the Fred Meyer pharmacy to pick up my four new prescriptions (no avoiding the steroids this time... but at least they're giving me a bottle of Vicodin). As we were waiting, we strolled down to the furniture section to take advantage of a cuddle-friendly loveseat. Unfortunately, it was also located right in front of and facing the holiday decorations. Chintzy decorations, cheesy versions of holiday songs, and marquise lighting greeted us from kitty-corner. A million Santas waved to us. And James and I began wondering when the whole Santa-brings-us-toys-thing began. Early 20th century? I think we both agree that Santa represents commercialism and nothing more, and that we want our kids (wherever they may be at present time) to know traditional holiday stories and avoid the Christmas that we have today. I would love to talk about St. Nicholas. I would love to make traditional tree decorations (round orange slices dried and strung through, beads, cranberries and popcorn strings).

And I would love to make Fruit Cake.