A slice of Christmas cake

Image credit: Alina Matveycheva/ Pexels

If there is one thing that I believe everyone finds strange about me, it is the fact that I do not like Christmas Cake. This is not something that is particularly odd. There are a great many people who do not like Christmas Cake. Many of which I have learned are like myself, and it is because they are opposed to the variety of different dried fruits one finds in it. Particularly raisins. It really is a cake that isn’t for everyone. Nothing truly strange about that. Except, most people who do not like Christmas Cake do not make a habit of baking several batches of it leading up and into the holidays. But I promise, I have my reasons.

It is a simple thing, a baked good, but in my own mind, it is the heart of everything I love about this time of year. The lights are beautiful, the weather both deadly and gorgeous, the music enough to bring tears to my eyes at times. The overall glow of the world gives me just a few minutes to catch my breath and take in the wonders and the beauty of the life that I have been given. But none of it can compare to the hectic hours I spend, baking with and for those that I love. Because for me, and I hope, for so many others, this season is above all else, about one thing, and that is love. Love for the sake of loving.

My earliest holiday memories are filled with the warmth of the kitchen and the sweet smell of various baked goods. In the recollection of it, there is an added warmth, like a blanket across one’s shoulders, that brings comfort, and makes one further appreciate the beauty of the outside world. I grew up on my Grandmother Hilda’s shortbread, always made with salted butter. I have tried out new treats like coconut ice in order make something special for my Nana, Pat. We have taken on a recipe for my Great Aunt Kay, lovely chocolate and coconut treats we’ve nicknamed Christmas Ornaments. In recent years, when my mother makes her shortbread layered with jam, we video call our cousins in England, and make it alongside them. Thousands of kilometres apart but sharing in it all the same.

Love is the act that taught me all the recipes I know. It is preserved in them. It was my family involving me in every step of a process they could do blindfolded until I too became just as skilled as them. Love is the act of packing up a tin with all the things you know someone will love, because you know them well enough. Love is the act of making and breaking food with one another. An act that has been written as sacred. It speaks of warmth, of trust, of the willingness to share that which one is and has. Love is the act of leaving behind these memories, these skills, even when one is gone.

It is true, I do not like Christmas Cake. I despise most of the things that go into it. But, when I lost my Grandmother Hilda, I inherited her recipes. And tucked away, typed up, the white paper stained yellow, I found a recipe for Christmas Cake. I had no intention of making it, until I showed it to my father. He remembered the Christmas Cake well, said that she used to make batches of it to give to her friends. He talked about how much he liked it, and even my mother, who shares my sentiments about Christmas Cake, said she remembered others speaking of it fondly. And perhaps it did begin as a way to cheer my father up, but it also developed into my own way of saying I missed her.

And so, one November day, I went, and I got all the ingredients, one of which was about three pounds of the raisins I could not stand. And I set to work. It was enough to make four cakes, and I remember having all the ingredients in their various bags lined up across my kitchen counter. I pulled out every baking bowl I had, and it still wasn’t enough. I remember being mortified by the amount of Crisco in it, and not knowing what to do with my hands after I smeared what remained of it alongside sheets of parchment that lined the baking dish. I had to wait three and a half hours before they could be done. Before I could be certain they’d be right.

Everyone in the house wanted to know how they turned out. My Nana, Pat, was keen to try it, my Father too, and even my Mother came in to check on their progress constantly. It was nerve wracking. Never had it felt like my holiday baking had any stakes. But it mattered here. And when they came out of the oven, perfectly cooked, I all but held my breath waiting for them to cool down, before cutting the first few slices.

My mother was the first to try it, avoiding the pieces she did not like, she took a bite of the actual cake that held all the fruit in place. And I remember it so clearly, for as tired and as anxious as I was, that my mother’s eyes instantly filled with tears, and she looked at my and said, “Grandma would be so proud”.

And I remember crying then too. Because I had done it. I had recreated something special. Something so tied to her and who she was. I watched my nana and my father happily begin eating their slices. My nana praised my skills to high heaven. My father said it tasted just like how he remembered it.

And for a moment, just for a moment, it felt like she was there again. Like I was in the kitchen with her all those years ago, making sure I used salted butter for the recipe, and cutting the shortbread cookies into the best shapes imaginable. She was gone, but she had still given me a gift. She left me behind a recipe, so that I may continue those special holiday treats with her and continue to give her holiday treats to those we loved.

And that was exactly what I did.

With two cakes saved for the family, I made even more, and I offered it to those I loved to try. There were, of course, those like me that did not like Christmas Cake, but there were those like my Grandma, my Nana, my Father, who readily accepted it. And lo and behold, I heard it several times: “This is the best Christmas Cake I have ever had.”.

And that lovely feeling I described, like a blanket over your shoulders whose warmth helps to amplify the beauty of the cold world around you? That is what a batch of Christmas Cake did for me, during a holiday season that was tougher than most. It reminded me of what I loved about the holidays. Of what I most looked forward to. Spending time with and sharing in the joy of the season with those I love. Family, friends, and those that have left us.

And so, this year, I’ve taken it on again. The fourth year in a row. And this time I’ve cut the recipe down. I thought of Grandma Hilda, and those I’ve lost in the years that have passed too. Grandpa Max, Grandad Michael, and Uncle Alan over in Spain. I thought of my Uncle Steve, who we lost in July. How he always took home a cake or two.

I overfilled my cupboards, utilised all my bowls and counterspace, covered myself in flour and batter, and made an entire mess; waited out the three and a half hours they take to bake.

I did it all with a smile on my face, and if I shed a few tears, it was in good faith, and a toast to the memories of those I love and still miss.

And now that it is done, I might prep to bake some other things too. And I’ll make a list of all the people that year who need a tin, and what might go inside of it, and hope it adds just a touch more magic to their holiday season.

Because even as we grow older, and the holidays carry their own burden or woe, I’ve learned, sometimes all you really need is a slice of Christmas Cake to remind you of what you still have, even amongst what you are missing. That you always have love. It is not something that can ever be lost.