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January 4, 2002

Mel's dearest friends and relatives all received homemade fruitcakes from him this year. It was a real labor of love, and we may have to remodel our kitchen as a result.

Mel does everything in a big way. He bought 30-pound boxes of candied fruit and pecan pieces and ordered a gallon of lemon extract online from Adams Extract. He bought big plastic containers for storing all the bags of flour and sugar. This little endeavor set us back a dollar or two.

Naturally, none of our two dozen cake pans measured up to Mel's high standards.

"If I use the tube pans, I cain't cook but two big cakes and four loaf cakes at a time," he explained.

He went to the store and came back with four smaller, springform pans and tried inverted small paper cups in the middle for the tube.

"I don't like the looks of these," my husband announced, as he removed the first round of cakes from the pans.

"Well in that case, I guess the ones you don't give cakes, you can give a springform pan for Christmas," I said.

On day two, he disappeared for an hour or so and returned home with two more "experimental" pans. Later that afternoon, I returned to find Mel up to his elbows in fruitcake batter. Pots and pans and mixing bowls were heaped in the sink, and a fine layer of flour covered every kitchen surface.

"Looks like the Pillsbury Dough Boy exploded all over this kitchen!" I shrieked.

I ventured closer. My shoes stuck to the floor where Mel had dribbled the syrup from the candied fruit. I checked the ceiling for splatters.

"Wish I had me a number three warshtub. Then I could rilly git with the program," he said.

"Yeah, you could get in there barefooted and stomp the batter, kind of like Lucy and Ethel in the winemak-ing episode of I Love Lucy."

Mel pointed to a fragrant batch of fruitcakes cooling on the counter. "Now that there's a real fruitcake," he said. " 'Em ol' rock hard imitations ain't good fer nuttin' but to fill potholes or maybe use for a doorstop."

I offered to help Mel with his project, but my work didn't live up to his quality control inspections.

"Not like 'at!" he barked, when I began mincing the cherries. "Cut 'em in half, no smaller."

"It'll take forever," I argued. "We could lose a crop at this rate."

"Anythang worth doin' is worth doin' right," Mel chirped.

The fruitcake cooking went on for three days running. He did most of the work. I mostly griped. If a cake had the slightest flaw, Mel called it a "test" cake and paused for a "sample."

"I don't think we're making much headway," I moaned. "I can't believe that boner you pulled last night, having me reset the timer every hour on the hour from 7 to 10 p.m. only to discover you didn't turn on the oven."

Just then, I turned to see Mel digging around in a bowl of batter with a long skewer.

"What in the world?"

"I lost my weddin' band an' I'm tryin' to fish it out," he said.

"Melvin Ross, that absolutely takes the cake! Actually, I'm surprised you're in such a hurry to find it, considering how much I've complained the last few days."

"I know what you mean, but I figger I better git it out quick, before it turns my batter green!"