One of the times I really look forward to during the Christmas season is sitting down during the peaceful hours, after everything is wrapped up, to a cup of tea and a large piece of fruitcake.

It always comes as a thunderous surprise to me when I have guests over and offer up fruitcake — they look at me a weirdly, waiting for a second choice and when none is forth coming, reply, “Just a tiny piece, I’m trying to cut down.” Being a tad slow of the uptake of this, I have finally come to realize not everyone looks forward to the sharing of this, one of the oldest, traditional confections (it is too a confection!) as I do.

Saddened by all the uncomplimentary comments that have been thrown at one of the things I treasure, I recently séanced with Edgar Allen Poe (who loves fruitcake) someplace between where he is and I am (it was a midnight and very dreary) and created the following in celebration:

Ode to the Fruitcake

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of cookbook lore —

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my kitchen door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my kitchen door — only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; urgently I had sought to borrow

A cup of sugar, from my neighbor, Lenore —

To make a fruit cake I needed more.

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

But the silence was broken, and the only word there spoken

Was the whispered, “Lenore!”

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the kitchen turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

“Surely,” said I, “surely, that is something at my window lattice.

Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore —

“‘Tis the winds and nothing more.”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter;

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched upon my kitchen door —

Perched upon the bust of Julia Childs just above my kitchen door

The Rave sat and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

And I asked, “Art come a craving?”

Quothe the Raven, “Where’s the fruitcake, Mrs. Nevermore?”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“In checking,” said I, “found there was none left at the store.

And the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore —

Again quothe the Raven, “Where’s the fruit cake, Mrs. Nevermore?”

But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself into linking

Fancy unto fancy, knowing what this ominous bird of yore knew by croaking,

“Where’s the fruitcake, Mrs. Nevermore?”

Thus I sat engaged in knowing, but no syllable bestowing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion’s velvet lining that the kitchen light gloated o’er,

Knowing I had devoured a whole fruitcake and, oh dear, there was not more.

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the bust of Julia, just above my kitchen door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

And the kitchen light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

As we look towards light of morrow, when to borrow sugar from Lenore.