Fruit Cake

My mother was a great cook. Her signature dish was brandy fruit cake. It was customary that whenever Christmas was round the corner, she'd promply bake two cakes. One for our family, and another for the Christmas Party.

We were never too fond of Roast Turkey. It was not customary to have any roasted birds on this holy day. We did, however have elaborate dishes made of pork beef and chicken, but no fish. My ancestors came from inland China. They never taught my mom how to cook seafood.

She always used the same type of flour when baking her signature cake. It came from the grocers in our neighbourhood and was wrapped up in a brown paper. The flour was unbleached so you could still make up the yellowish stain that came from the wheat. Mom said that bleaching kills the taste. It's like cooking with rotten meat.

I thought she had a peculiar way of mixing the ingredients. Always ten turns clockwise and one turn anticlockwise. She held the wooden spoon very gracefully and yet kneaded with such strength that I could hear the spoon scraping against the green plastic bowl from yards away. That plastic bowl was classic too; I don't think there was a time in my childhood that she'd bake using any other bowl.

Come to think of it, she never bothered buying an electric mixer. At a time when household appliances were undergoing a Renaissance, she was still using the old fashioned wooden spoon. My aunts never understood why she would toil away folding the flour and butter rather than dumping it into an electric mixer and pressing a button. Mom argued that it had to be made with love, and no machine can give the cake the love it needed.

Soft and comforting words from my mother. She was very diplomatic in her arguments.

Sometimes I'd forget to stop her before she put in the eggs. She'll only allow me to taste the mixture of butter and sugar before the eggs went in. I didn't care really, it tasted just the same. Sweet and fluffy were the right words to describe it.

The mix fruit and brandy were added last. Mom was very stingy with the brandy. She said that she'll only add more when I "came of age". She didn't want to raise a bunch of drunkards. I loved to grease the pan; mom always let me do it. I secretly licked my fingers every time I dug into the chunk of butter and spread it all over the surface of the pan. Mom must have realised this but she never really cared. Hygiene was not a concern, love was.

The baking would take two whole hours but it was the best part of the process. You could smell the cake from a mile away. I remember my brother and me camping in front of the oven just to inhale the scent of freshly baked cake. Mom found this amusing because the heat of the oven always made us sweat until we looked like we just came out from a shower. We kids argued jokingly that we were there because someone had to watch the cake in case it burnt, but I knew deep down inside that mom always got the timing right. We never had a burnt fruit cake.

The cake looked less than impressive when it came out of the oven. And mom insisted that no icing should be placed to mask its unpleasant appearance. It would have cracks and the fruits that broke out from the crust made it all uneven. It looked like my best friend’s face which had heaps of pimples on it. But mom insisted against touching it up.

She taught me that it was not the appearance that mattered. It was the taste. Even until today I still look out for cute boys and pay no regard to their “taste” howsoever bitter it might seem. Mom taught me personality was more important than looks but I guess I just haven’t learnt my lesson.

How can I describe the aroma to you? Sharp and crisp, rich and buttery. Words fail me.

The cake would keep for 3 months in the pantry but it never lasted that long. Me and my brother made sure it never got past 7 days.

Christmas at my house was never about the presents. It was about the cake. My mother would lovingly take it out for guests, lovingly serve the relatives who came to visit, lovingly cut up the slices into small bite portions for me and my brother to eat with hot chocolate.

She took the recipe with her when God called her home. Nobody in my family has been able to come up with a fruit cake that could even compete with mom's. Hers was divine; everything else was mediocre.

Today I bought two slices from the local supermarket. $2.50 for a slice, a price that would send my mother screaming if she knew about it. And yes, it was not as good as mother's but it sure did remind me of those days when I'd sit in front of the TV and gobble up the little bite sized portions of cake that was made with love. Not just any love, but my mother's.