The Dreaded Beast--Fruitcake

It is sitting on the doorstep when I get home. I know what it is without opening it, just by the size of the package; the return address says it is from my crazy Aunt Vicky. I think about calling the bomb squad, or toxic cleanup, but I decide that would be more drastic than necessary. Perhaps this year, she didn't send one. I cross my fingers as I pick up the package; the thought of leaving it on the doorstep until some neighbor kid decides to boost it barely crosses my mind.

I took it into my apartment, and set it gently on the coffee table; dropping it might dent the table. I stare at the package. It is an ordinary looking box. From anyone else, I would be eager to see what is inside. But at this time of year, Aunt Vicky only sends out one thing and one thing only--fruitcake.

I am not sure if any of us in the family really want them. Last year, we talked about forwarding them to Iraq; perhaps some soldier would look upon them with favor. Uncle Don says, "No, not unless they are out of grenades. They taste worse than K-rations."

I take his word about the K-rations. I don't remind him now days the military uses MREs (Meals Ready to Eat); not that there is any difference, the few I had were tied with this holiday delight for rubbery taste.

I open the package. Inside is the dreaded beast of flour and dried candied fruit. I skim the note, Aunt Vicky had included, "Merry Christmas! Here is a treat for you."

I am not sure exactly who came up with the idea of fruitcake. It has been theorized that fruitcake was a way to turn perfectly good wheat and dried fruit into a dessert that the mice wouldn't touch. It worked. We do not know who to blame, despite the evidence that it is ancient idea; unwanted fruitcakes have been found tossed in bogs by the Vikings and the Celts. Considering they remained there untouched, it is obvious that the gods did not want them either.

I stare at my latest gift, and wonder if there is a handy bog nearby. Or perhaps landfill. I would just carry it out to the dumpster in the alley, but the city frowns on industrial waste being dumped in them; if an old toilet can damage a garbage truck, imagine the damage from an unwanted fruitcake.

Maybe the local homeless shelter. Not to eat, I imagine that they would rather eat a Jesuit instead or perhaps the buttock of an old woman before they would consider eating fruitcake. I am thinking that if they get enough of them that they can use them to build a new house or two. What snowstorm could overcome a house made out of fruitcakes; the third little pig, despite what you may have heard, used old fruitcakes to build his cottage.

Perhaps this year, I should just break down and attempt to eat it. After all, my doctor has been harassing me about my cholesterol level, and he thinks that I should be eating more fiber. Is there any fiber in fruitcake? I don't know.

I realize that I don't know what fresh fruitcake tastes like. My distaste of fruitcake came from my mom. Thinking about it, my mom is not the best judge of food. I open the drawer and dig out a knife. Cutting myself a slice, I notice that it is not as hard as fruitcake normally is; maybe leaving fruitcake sitting around is not the best thing for it.

The cat walks by, curious about what I am doing. I offer him a bite; he walks away, tail held high, muttering once again about the strange things that I am willing to stick in my mouth. I wonder if he has a point. Screwing up my courage, I take a bite. I chew. I swallow. Maybe Aunt Vicky is not as crazy as the rest of us think she is.