Food from a fever dream
The holiday season is underway. What caught my attention was an advertisement for a concert in a local church hall. Concerts come and go. This also mentioned a cake auction, and with that my interest was piqued.
I can imagine bidding on a mysterious tin can, about the size of a piccolo snare drum. Inside the can, a fruit cake. Something with character. Made from a variety of brightly coloured vegetable matter, aged for a couple of decades in vats of old sherry. And then added to a dark mixture that had odours of an ancient era. Savoury. With molasses (I imagine). Unable to be eaten too quickly; I forecast twenty years, in slivers, served with stiff tea.
Have I ever? Not even close. My own experience with fruit cake is based on those ersatz bricks sold in the marketplace. Do I want one? Not at all. I’m just trying to imagine what one might win in a cake auction.
My parents weren’t patial to heavy cake. Nor were my grandparents, as far as I know. Perhaps this is something witnessed in a fever dream. Or seen in an old seasonal catalog from Eatons. It doesn’t matter, as I will not be bidding. And to all of my friends and family, please don’t, on my behalf. My taste in desserts has changed. I now prefer fresh fruit in yogurt. Age. And I can probably share it with very young relatives, without sending their parents into overdrive.
Actually, I’ll skipW dessert with my next meal. Health. And leave the tea on the stove, where it belongs.
