Fruitcake

Good morning, my neighbor, and Merry Christmas to you! I’m here with a gift for you and your family! Yes, it’s fruitcake again, just like every other year, only before it was left on your porch by a woman whose name you never bothered to know.

Who, you ask? But you must have seen her a hundred times walking the street in front of your house—tiny thing, ruddy cheeks and shaggy white hair. She always wore a gauzy tie-dyed skirt and a Cardinals jersey—Pujols, number 5. Sometimes she danced for no reason and sang old Beatles songs at the top of her lungs. 'She loves you yeah, yeah'...yeah, that’s her. Don’t you remember? Every time you saw her you called for your kids to come in. Crazy’s the word you used—off in the head.

For ten years straight that crazy little lady baked a fruitcake for you and your family and left it on your front porch on Christmas morning. And every year, when you walked out your door you kicked it aside “Damn thing’s like a brick,” you said.

I never told my Lizzie this because it would’ve crushed her soul, but last year I saw you feed it to your dog. “Look,” I heard you say, laughing. “He won’t even eat it.”

This Christmas I thought I’d hand the cake to you, personally, because with your gift I have some news I think you’ll be glad to hear. There will be no more fruitcake. No fruitcake ever again to clutter your porch and block your door; no fruitcake to feed your dog. And you can rest assured that you won’t be seeing the crazy slip of a lady anymore, dancing in the street, singing her songs. No one will ever see my Lizzie again.

Why do you look so sad my neighbor, my friend? There’s no need to ruin your Christmas by feeling bad. After all, you’re not the first to turn fruitcake away; not the only one afraid to take a chance on its colorful fruits and nutty texture, choosing the smooth chocolate sheet cake instead.