The soaking of the fruit 

It is in rituals that we weave together our lives, our histories. The creation of our own myths and legends stirring through time. 

It begins the day before. No, that is not quite accurate. How many times have I believed that only to find the cupboard, well not bare, but lacking in one item or other, loads of this but not quite enough of that. But in myth and legend nobody shops so lets just agree that it begins the day before.

It begins the day before on hands and knees, head buried up to the shoulder in the back of the cupboard searching for the right bowl. Dusty and always with a mysterious crust that has somehow survived sloppy dishwashing. It is seldom used now, though there was a time when it sat proud and gleaming ready for twice weekly action. Brownies, Battenberg, peanut butter buttons all began here. Small sticky fingers griped small sticky spoons, fighting over who will lick the bowl. Now it is washed clean for its annual outing, with no more tiny mouths to feed. 

More searching in cupboards for newly purchased packets and leftovers from last year. Moving and sorting, sure you’d seen an extra pack here somewhere. The scales sit at the ready, still dusted and crusted with years of cake batter and neglect. I like the weighing. It marks the beginning of things, the potential. Though with dried fruit I’m less than precise. A few ounces extra of cherries here, means a few less of dried peel later.

Some years, the dried fruits are a lavish affair. Fat sticky figs, squat with little stalk hats spilling their seeds at the slightest squeeze.  Glossy jet prunes soft and slickly black.  Golden sultanas. Sweet un-sulphured apricots. Wine deep glistening cherries. On other, more leaner years, when life has swallowed savings for new tyres, or shoes or a forgotten school trip, it’s an altogether more raisins, currants and sultana’s affair but even in the leanest of years never ever savers mixed peel. 

So back to the weighing. First the easy things, the simple judging of weight and tipping into the bowl. Then comes the processing, begun enthusiastically with scissors in hand, each fruit snipped to size. Snip snip snip. This lasts until impatience and cramp in my hands results in less than precise quality control. Ultimately impatience wins out and the rest are just tipped in whole to be chopped later, or maybe not. 

Spices are added, cinnamon, nutmeg, mixed spice and the pinch of deep warming black pepper. Oranges and lemons are zested and squeezed, and their oils fill the air, visible as a film across the edges of the bowl. Next is the alcohol, again a roulette of finances and planning, it is most likely to be whatever is lurking in the back of the pantry. A miniature of whisky, calvados bought back from holidays, a dust crusted bottle of cherry brandy. One year disastrously and in desperation Snapps that gave a bitter aftertaste to each sorry bite of cake. This year it is heavy on Cointreau, deep tones of bitter orange and spice. 

 The air sparkling with citrus scents, the careful turning and blending and coating of winter fruits can begin. There is alchemy in baking, and it is never more potent than in the making of Christmas cake.  Not something to be eaten immediately, not something to be consumed all in one go, not even something you can be sure will be just perfect on the day. Soaking the fruit, making the cake, is a trusting in the recipes handed down to us. It is the marking of those traditions that came before us, the readying of festivities, the passing of another year. The passing on of those myths and legends that are stirred though out our life.