The entire room was red---carpet and Miss Scarlett drapes-with-cords
Nobody tore into the stocking or dumped it out on the couch---not anybody I knew. We savored that stocking, whether family rule was open it first, or presents first. An experimental fondle of the stocking-toe would be a mysterious thing---was that a walnut, or did it have just enough give to be a new red ball, with jacks scattered into the mix? Brazil Nuts were easy, but could that possibly be a new bracelet-charm, perhaps a mustard-seed in its little clear faddish globe, instead of a hazelnut? And pecans---those conjured many covetable items of their size and shape, all looked at longingly and admired in Ben Franklin for weeks before Christmas. Little lipsticks and tiny colognes and samples from the
After the fudge-making, the table was covered with long slick sheets of Cut-Rite, with the far ends still trying to curl around the last rows of candy. The little nut-filled patties were then stored in the golden treasure-tins which had once---once per year, in fact---held those most delightful of confections---Hostess Fruitcake.
Not Fruit Cake---Fruitcake. It had to be all one word, with Fruit as the emphasis, for those glistening round red cherries, glaceed within an inch of their sweet, sweet lives, and the hunks of sugary pineapple and the crisp pecan halves---those were the main ingredients. There was just enough of a light, moist-but-the outsides-a-little-bit-crumbly cake to hold all those pounds of magic into every judiciously-doled slice.
Joining my Apples and Fruitcake to Miz Beverly's Pink Saturday at How Sweet The Sound.