Fun With Fruitcake

Lost in translation

When I relocated to the U.S. from the U.K, it quickly became evident that fruitcake was universally despised. At first, I was baffled. What was the matter with it? Who couldn't love the dense, boozy concoction with marzipan and hard icing and, of course, a little snowman to top it off? My mum started making her Christmas cake months ahead of time, but fruitcake wasn't only for Christmas - it was my wedding cake, and subsequently my daughter's christening cake. So why are Americans so bloody rude about it?

And then it hit me. A long-repressed memory struggled to the surface and it all became clear.

It was the winter of 1976 and my mother had heard about an amazing fruitcake from The Collin Street Bakery in Corsicana, Texas. She decided to give herself a break from making it herself and excitedly ordered not one, but two ‘deluxe fruitcakes.'

They arrived the week before Christmas and we eagerly opened up the boxes, only to discover the reason why Americans loathe fruitcake.

How can I best describe it? Well, let's start with Collin Street's own words. ‘Hand-picked golden sweet pineapple and lush papaya' should be your first warning to head for Marks & Spencer. What kind of proper fruitcake has poncey tropical fruit? My mother was horrified. She would allow currants and raisins and maybe, just maybe a handful of glacé cherries, but definitely no angelica or anything ‘garish.' English fruitcake must be as conservative as its countrymen.

Here is your second warning: ‘refrigerated, stays moist and delicious for months.' Aside from the word ‘moist' being my mother's bête noire, all proper Brits know that a fruitcake should not be refrigerated. It should be kept in a hideous tin which has been in your family for generations and nobody can remember where they got it, but you would never think of buying a new one because again, that would be ‘garish.'

This fruitcake from Texas was not only beyond colorful but beyond edible. It was sickly sweet, solid with candied fruit and lousy with pecans. Pecans? What the hell was this? The British fruitcake might contain a few strategically placed almonds, but they wouldn't be showing off like those in-your-face American nuts. There wasn't a hint of booze. Stunned and beyond disappointed, my mother wondered what on earth to do with the second tin. Use it as a deadly weapon? Give it to someone we didn't like? Throw it into the sea? We wanted to send it back to Texas but it was too expensive.

Fast forward thirty years and I am now married to a Texan who thinks Corsicana fruitcake is the nectar of the gods. He eschews the great British version for its blandness and won't hear a word against Collin Street. Of course, this is also the man who considers chicken fried steak a gourmet delicacy. So it must be cultural. I am a conservative Brit and my husband is a fun-loving Texan. He wears bright colours and I live in monochrome. He likes ostentatious fruitcake and I like understated proper fruitcake.

American readers: if you don't have Texan tastes and have always hated fruitcake, take heart and try making your own.

Just remember to buy an ugly tin.