The Christmas Cake Mishap
Many years ago, when we settled in New York not too many years prior, escaping from the revolution in Iran, we formed a group of friends. We were all in our thirties and forties. Most of us were either Iranians, or married to one. One November day, one of our friends who was married to a Persian and was English, wistfully said, “Christmas is coming and I wish that I had a Christmas cake like the one my mother used to bake.” Her mother had passed away. I could not imagine how that felt. Just thinking of losing mine made me go into a mini panic. I felt sorry for her because of that.
Now Adele, that was her name, was handy in all sorts of things. She could do simple carpentry, she hung up wallpaper; she even tiled her kitchen floor. She did all that with great enthusiasm and a smile upon her face.
These were all things that I greatly admired in her. I was never capable of doing anything so practical. What she was not good at was cooking. I was. I had my old faithful English cookery book by Marguerite Patton, which had a great recipe for the Christmas fruit cake. I had made it quite a few times. It was baked a month before Christmas, placed in a pot with a tight-fitting lid which I used specifically for that purpose. Each day a spoonful of rum was added to it until a week before the event. At which time it required two types of icings before it was ready for the big day. The first was a layer of marzipan topped with royal icing. That way, the cake could be preserved for up to a year if desired.
“I can make the cake, Adele. I have a great recipe for that,” I offered.
“A great idea! We will have the whole group over and ask them to each bring an assigned dish,” Adele said.
We were getting quite excited with the thought of an almost English Christmas. The only thing we could not obtain at that time in New York were Christmas crackers, but I guess you cannot have everything.
I set about getting all the ingredients for the cake. I made my own marzipan and carefully wrapped it up for when the cake was ready. I baked the cake. Adele came over when it was done and peered at it anxiously. “Perhaps I should take it over to my house. You have small children and they might get into it. I promise to add the rum every day.”
Since it was her idea and her Christmas wish, I handed the tight-fitting pot to her. She placed it on top of her fridge and each day she tended to it. Once a week, I would go examine it. It smelled heavenly. My marzipan was all ready to go. It was as smooth as silk. I had carefully wrapped it in layers of plastic wrap to keep it moist and pliable. I would cut some holly from the tree in the garden, dye some Royal icing red and decorate the cake for Christmas. When the time came, I would set this pièce de résistance on my gorgeous red pedestaled crystal platter. I imagined myself proudly walking it to the dessert table and all the admiring comments we would receive for this work of art.
I forgot to mention that Adele and her husband had no children. Instead, they had a most pampered dog by the name of Seaweed. He was a quite elongated Dalmatian. When he trotted up to greet me, he would stand on his hind legs, place his front paws on my shoulders, and proceed to lick all the makeup off my face. In that position, he towered over me. I would scrunch my face up and protest, “I love you too, Seaweed! Down! Down!” I would protest. Seaweed was quite affectionate, and it took a lot of persuasion before he did. In the meantime, I would be staggering about trying to keep my balance.
One morning, right after the kids and the hubby went off to school and the office, the phone rang. I picked it up. It was Adele. “Oh Stella, I’m in despair,” she exclaimed.
“What is the matter, Adele?” I asked, thinking of all sorts of tragic occurrences.
“Seaweed ate the fruitcake! Will you ever forgive me?” she asked dejectedly. What could I say? It was for her I made that cake. One cannot cry over spilt milk. What’s done is done! She felt bad enough as it was.
We still had our Christmas party, but instead of the Christmas fruit cake, I made a yule log, Bûche de Noël. The Bûche de Noel was trimmed with the same holly and red marzipan berries that I had planned for the fruit cake. For many years afterward, we laughed at the Christmas cake that never was.
And Seaweed? After eating that massive rich cake laden with a month’s worth of rum, he lay on his back with his legs stuck high up into the air, snoring so loudly he could have woken up the dead!