Remember Your Roots and Keep Them Colored

The Christmas fruitcake

By Trena Eiden
Posted 12/19/19

Don’t we all get a sappy, schmaltzy grin on our face whenever we think of an old-fashioned Christmas? We see those big Belgians trotting up the lane, clouds of steam rising from their nostrils. …

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Remember Your Roots and Keep Them Colored

The Christmas fruitcake

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Don’t we all get a sappy, schmaltzy grin on our face whenever we think of an old-fashioned Christmas? We see those big Belgians trotting up the lane, clouds of steam rising from their nostrils. The horses in the corral raise their heads and whinny when they hear the single-trees clink and jingle, and the sleigh bells tinkling, all merry-sounding in the frosty afternoon.

The newly cut Christmas tree, sticking out over the end of the hayrack, bobs along as the runners bounce over the frozen ground. The hired man, Tuff, speaks softly, “Gee Bob, gee Skip,” and the horses turn into the yard as the chickens scatter, then run quickly into the coop. The grandkids jump off the sled in a flurry of hay flakes and seeds, laughing as they jostle and shove each other. The dogs, with eyes dancing and tongues lolling, frolic with the kids, seeming to enjoy the hustle and bustle as much or more than the children.

Gramps is in the barn scooping grain into a Folgers can and pouring it into Bessie’s feed box. She puts her head through the stanchion but it doesn’t have to be closed because she’s so gentle the grandkids rode her in from the pasture all last summer. She munches while the older man milks, his head pressed into her flank. Three cats sit erect, waiting for what’s coming, then suddenly a squirt, and the first cat gets a milk stream right in the whiskers, followed by two more squirts in quick succession into the other two cat’s faces. Then Gramps stands, pats his treasured milk cow and slides his stool toward the manger full of hay.

With bucket in hand, he makes his way across the barn. The cats, knowing what’s coming, race in front of his legs, forcing him to push them back so he can pour warm, frothy milk into three bowls against the wall. The cats begin lapping and Gramps turns to see that Bessie is still eating, so he opens the gate, knowing she’ll go out when she’s ready.

The older gentleman makes his way to the house, stopping to talk to the kids as they rush at him. “Gramps, you were supposed to wait to milk till we got back so we could help,” one slightly older boy pants. Gramps reaches out, and taking the lad’s cap off, gently smacks him on the head with it then puts it back on.

“I know, but I gathered the eggs and fed, so the chores are finished. Figured you could skip all that today and just get the tree put up.” The kids follow him into the house, yelling to be heard above each other’s boisterous voices, to tell their Gram about the tree cutting adventure. She’s at the counter, smiling happily at her offspring’s offspring, and wrapping pieces of cut up sheets soaked in brandy, around her newly made fruitcakes.

What? Hold up. Wait just a doggone minute.

Screeeeeeeeeeech.

That’s the sound of the phonograph needle being scraped across the record. Did I say, “fruitcakes” in the middle of an idyllic Christmas setting?

Last January, troopers were informed that a suspicious unmarked present was left under a Christmas tree in the waiting area at a Seattle ferry terminal. Not knowing how long it had been there, officials temporarily halted service and evacuated the area while the package was investigated. Bomb experts in explosive blast suits were brought in, complete with helmet, face guard and boot covers.

The gift was first examined on site until it was decided it wasn’t an explosion risk. It was then taken to police headquarters where it was placed in a quarantined area, carefully opened and thoroughly inspected. The officers claimed they were totally caught off guard when the package was found to be a fruitcake. One spokesman stated they were all puzzled since it wasn’t clear why it was left behind.

Really? It wasn’t clear why it was left behind? I can tell you why it was left behind; any 4-year-old can tell you why it was left behind: IT WAS A FRUITCAKE! A FRUITCAKE! And anyone with a fruitcake-making Gram, not only can tell you the reason why it was stealthily discarded, but are so jealous that someone found a way to ditch that inedible-awful-clump-of-pretend-dessert-with-rubber-hunks-of-sugar-masquerading-as-fruit. God bless my precious, much cherished, completely beloved, long deceased Gram, and her terrible, horrible, no good, very bad fruitcakes.

Merry Christmas and God’s mercies everyone and to you fruitcake lovers … bless your hearts. 

(Trena Eiden — Wyoming native, wife to Gar, mother of four and Grammy to 11 — works and writes every day because she likes to eat. She loves babies and old people and feels her favorite quote from Sister Angelica is universal, “If it wasn’t for people, we could all be holy.” She lives in Big Piney.)

Remember Your Roots and Keep Them Colored

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