UNALAKLEET -- On the days leading up to Christmas, mother enjoyed her time in the kitchen. "Ooh, what are you making?" I remember asking, hopeful.
"Fruitcake," she replied.
"Why are you making that?" I asked, with a warm laugh but with conviction, too. "Nobody likes it!"
"People do. The Hinkeys like it," she said, smiling. "They told me."
"Liars," I said, smiling back. "They don't. They're only being nice," I quipped back with a giggle.
Understand I had the beautiful freedom to be honest with mother, and we enjoyed joking. And, oh my goodness, is she rubbing it in today.
Mom enjoyed making all kinds of treats during the holidays. Swedish kringle. Russian tea cakes. Pie after pie with crusts of perfection. Thumbprint cookies, a perfect blend of salty butter and sweet confection. I'm told one year she fried rosettes, but lost the handle to the flower fry molds and never made them again. The pretty molds sat in our drawers for years like orphans. Orphans we continued to love, hoping the handle would magically reappear so mother could again treat us to delicate fried, snowflake-shaped dough. Things do reappear unexpectedly.
Growing up, my brother, sister and I loved the sweet treats Mom made, because she was good! She had a touch in the kitchen, especially when it came to baking, and I don't say this just to make up for the fruitcake comments. Everything she put in the oven came out exceptional. I remember savoring every crumbly bite of the petite tea cakes, delighting in the way the powdered sugar created a sticky, gummy texture on my fingertips when taking the time to sit and enjoy. Or the thumbprint cookies, still warm with icing spilling out of the first bite and hurrying to take another to make sure not a sticky drop fell on the floor. Mom liked a clean kitchen. Thinking about it now, I can feel happy, cozy and playful oozing out 30 years later.
Then again, there was fruitcake.
Eager to please, I tried mother's fruitcake every year and just about every year there would be a neglected slice on the fruitcake plate with one bite taken out. As the youngest, the baby, I will admit that the thing I wanted most was to put a smile on Mom's face and continue to be her favorite. Seeing that uneaten slice of brown cake with green stuff and nuts in it wasn't a good feeling.
The fruitcake was only eaten by Mom, Dad and the occasional old person who visited. That slice had my name on it, and I'd see it all day! I did not understand them. Why would you choose fruitcake over all the other delicious morsels on the counter? Relief came when Dad would grab my piece of fruitcake after dinner and eat it.
Mom made the cake with rum, the only alcohol in our house. The bottle sat on the floor in the closet that led to the basement. Or in a bottom cabinet where she kept her pots and pans. It never seemed to belong. The bottle would sit there all year, usually until we left town and an uncle stayed and watched our house. Mom and Dad would laugh afterward and purchase another dark bottle during their next trip to town.
And I could tell she enjoyed baking with the booze. She especially enjoyed the fact that the booze-baked treat was made for the pastor's family and the pastor's family claimed to like her concoction. "They really like it," she'd say. "The alcohol cooks out." While it did, I know she still enjoyed the edge.
And the Hinkeys received the fruitcake every year. Like the star on Kayoukluk's house, the carolers that stood in front of our window, the trip with Dad up to South River to get a tree, the Christmas program at school, the Advent candles at church, the fruitcake happened during Christmas season. Every year. Not only made, but given as a gift. I could not understand people who enjoyed fruitcake enough to receive it as a gift. Happily. Gratefully. I will say, it looked pretty, wrapped in tin foil, tied with a ribbon and topped with a bow.
I remember sitting in the sled with Dad driving the snowmachine as we delivered Christmas gifts around town. He'd holler back as we stopped at my great-uncle's house. "He gets a fruitcake!" I'd grab a heavy brick and walk toward his door. He'd accept the gift, smiling, and would sometimes give me a hug, and I'd leave perplexed. I could not understand. Wouldn't you think he'd want new gloves? Or a thermos? Nope. He seemed pretty darn happy with the fruitcake.
It's been 10 years since Karen and I sat down with all of Mom's cookbooks and recipe cards and divided the treasures. We were astonished to find that some of her signature dishes came from Better Homes and Gardens magazine clippings. We went through each card and reflected on each dish, with both sadness and joy in our hearts. We took our favorites. Shuffling through, the gem of her fruitcake recipe card came up and we laughed. Hard. "Let's frame it. No one will use it, but it needs to be framed," I said. Karen took the card and I didn't mind that she was the one who kept it. I didn't mind one bit.
But then again, things do reappear unexpectedly, like I said. The strangest things. The handle to the rosette maker did not reappear. Nope.
Not long ago, Dec. 1 rolled around and -- get this -- I craved fruitcake. Mother's fruitcake. More than I looked forward to making Swedish kringle. Or the little tea cakes. I sat there, shaking my head and laughing, thinking the universe made a mistake for a moment. Then a few days later, the craving came back. I sat there, stunned. Really? I'm craving fruitcake? It happened again and I finally gave in. I called my sister and let her know. "Really?" she asked. "Weird! That's so weird."
Astonishing even myself, I asked her to send me a copy. I'll buy that tub of weird-looking fake fruit. I'll even buy purple raisins. It feels so unnatural. I'll get a bottle of dark rum and I'll boil it with sugar on top of the stove. I'll do it laughing, pouring the batter in the bread pan. Mother, you're surely enjoying making fun of me up there, aren't you? My daughter Sidney will probably try it and will probably hate it. A piece with a bite will lie on the counter and I'll grab it, slather it with butter and eat it up.
Lena's Fruitcake
Boil together for three minutes & cool:
1 12-ounce box raisins
3 1/2 cups cold water
1/2 cups rum
2 teaspoons vanilla
Beat together and add to the above:
4 teaspoons soda
2 teaspoons cinnamon
2 teaspoons cloves
2 cups sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 egg
3/4 cup salad oil
Fold in above:
5 cups flour
2 cups nuts, chopped
8 ounces red cherries
8 ounces green cherries
8 ounces pineapple
Bake at 325 degrees for 30 minutes or 300 degrees for 45 minutes. Yields two fruitcakes (loaf size).
Laureli Kinneen lives in Nome, where she's raising her two children, Joe and Sidney. They eat a lot of fish and are very proud of their yorkipoo named Pushkin.