Mom's Fruitcake

I recently read a quote from someone whose name I cannot remember. They said that if the world keeps trending in the same direction, there would soon be nothing left except rats, cockroaches and fruitcakes. That is not the exact quote, but it is the gist of it.

The thought brought a smile to my face this holiday season. My Father and Brother are big fruitcake fans but neither could hold a candle to my Mother. She made one about this time every year and she never gave up trying to get me to eat a slice.

Well, more than that. I always relented and ate a sliver but I never liked it, and she wanted me, with all her heart, to like it as much as she did. No matter how many slices I ate, or how hard I tried, I have never acquired a taste for fruitcake.

I don’t know when my aversion for fruitcake began, but my stint in Vietnam only served to solidify my dislike. That is because during my six months in the boonies, I ate more than my fair share of C-Rations, and one of the condiments in almost every box was a little tin can packed with fruitcake. About the only thing worse were the barely edible pork slices and, of course, the Tropical Bar.

A Tropical Bar is a piece of chocolate candy manufactured so that it would not melt beneath the high temperatures of the tropics. You could not get the darn thing to dissolve, and stomach acids had little more effect. It was so bad, you could throw it on the ground and even the Vietnamese field rats wouldn’t eat it.

I digress. The Army’s fruitcake was bad, but not as bad as the pork slices and certainly not as horrible as a Tropical Bar. Still, despite my Mother’s best cajoling, I never willingly touched the candied confection to my lips.

My Dad and Brother are still alive but my Mother has passed on. I know that she’s not far away because every year around this time I can feel her presence, and yes, she’s still nagging me to try just one little slice of fruitcake. I love you dearly Mom, but sorry - not this year.

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