Christmas Fruitcake and Whiskey
At Christmas Time,
There Came,
Crammed in a can,
or rather, a Christmas tin,
A Fruitcake from Aunt Dotty, sent from the Collin Street Bakery.
The tin a bright red, and the lid emblazoned with a Currier and Ives Scene.
A Christmas Couple crossing Christmas Snow to a Christmas Coach,
And sliced in a wedge across the scene, A Texas Cowboy, A Texas Star, and
the facade of the Alamo.
What, I wondered, did Christmas have to do with the Alamo?
But Christmas was full of images that tested my cognitive dissonance.
Church boy that I was, I balanced the resonance,
Of images of wise men crossing the desert at Christmas,
With scenes of churches in snow,
And Saint Nick in red resplendent,
With bare manger scenes of Jesus
With angels magnificent.
Here was the Fruitcake, Clustered with Pecans, and Bright with Red
and Green Fruit, all shiny as Christmas Bulbs.
It
Looked
Good.
“Try some Fruitcake Boys!” my mother proffered
amidst the gathered family noise.
So I pondered what was offered.
And my eyes were tantalized
by Aunt Dotty’s heartfelt sent Fruitcake prize.
But perhaps my brother, older, wiser, knew better.
Aunt Dotty wore a smelly sweater.
Indeed she was a singular type, of the farm, swore a lot, smoked a corn cob pipe. Still I thought her funny, she taught me to cheat at gin rummy.
But my brother regarded with alarm, this confection; it could do harm.
But I, tempted with delight, an initiate, took a virginal bite.
Upon Which,
Unlike other times when I lost some other kind of virginity,
unto Fruitcake I swore to celibacy.
One Bite,
And taste buds did explode,
On overdrive, on overload.
Overcome with overt over-sweetness, my face in rictus wincing,
I nearly gagged and in repulsion, my throat in near convulsion, I feared a stomach propulsion!
That this was good would take convincing.
My mother spied my widened eyes, and wise she was, showed no surprise,
“It’s an acquired taste dear, take’s some getting used to.”
Well, I was used to spankings and school, didn’t mean I had to like them.
It was incredible! How was it, that something that looked so good, be so damned near inedible?
Then it was I grew suspicious, Who could possibly find this cake delicious?
I knew it had to be preposterous, but then I looked to Grandfather, who imbibed of much that was noxious
--Bourbon, Scotch and something called Smirnoff.
I regarded him with a leery eye, as he raised his lips to quaff a glass of Rye.
He winked his eye, “Grandfather’s medicine!”
Knowing how much he did drink
I couldn’t help but think,
“Wow! He must be really sick!”
He winked again, “Not to worry, another nip will do the trick!”
“Grandpa,” I asked, “do you like Fruitcake?”
At this question his mouth turned droll.
“Eh! Wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole!”
Although he said he wouldn’t, I imagined him trying to do it.
He raised his glass and sipped his Rye, and exclaimed to me
“Ahh! A hair of the dog that bit me!”
I wondered of this,
was the drink vicious?
“Here,” said Grandfather, “This is better than Fruitcake.
Try it.
It’ll put hair on your chest.”
I thought that odd to say,
Bald as Grandpa was, it seemed more to take hair away.
Yet, then he had hair in places queer,
low on his neck, and in his ear,
So perhaps he knew best,
that he let the hair on his head go straight to his chest.
Still I could not help surmise,
that it was an unworthy compromise.
Still, he offered me the drink,
but burned on the Fruitcake,
I could only think,
I had no great expectation, this would be a great libation.
Still, though I knew it was risky, it was a mystery, this drink called whiskey.
And not wanting to refuse the offer,
Of my benevolent Grandfather,
Being a good boy,
I
Took
A Sip.
A burning explosion! An effect visceral!
Smoky, Sweet, damn near medicinal!
I erupted in a cough! Feared my socks would be knocked off!
Grandfather smiled, “It’s an acquired taste. Take’s some getting used to.”
Well, there again, I was used to haircuts and church, didn’t mean I had to like them.
All of this made we wonder, what bewitched spell these adults were under?
They came accustomed to the strangest things at Christmas time
like Whiskey and Fruitcake.
If one day, I would be grown up, which I knew to be long away,
I doubted if I would get used to Fruitcake and Whiskey on any Christmas day.
Even if I was grown up, tasting them, I’d still want to throw up.
Assaulted as my taste buds were by the wretched Fruitcake,
parched as I was by the burn of whiskey,
I did not lament.
I knew what Christmas meant.
To find joy in simple things
and soothe myself quite content,
with a simple Candy Cane
Bright with Peppermint.
~Brad Erickson
Christmas 2011
