the fruitcake

The power went out yesterday morning as I was lining my cake pan with waxed paper, causing screams from neighborhood children cut off mid-video game. Being good consumers, we packed up and went shopping. We stopped at a fund-raiser car wash held by the community college's Fashion Society and laughed while the aspiring designers tiptoed around our car in fancy clothes and high heels, trying not to touch the wet sponges.
 

We sat in the evening to a Sunday dinner of roast beef, glazed carrots, and pumpkin eggnog. Gavin climbed out of his Power Ranger costume to sit at the table, and I lit the fireplace (read: put batteries in it), my triumphant fruitcake bundled securely in the wine cooler to age. And I did not set fire to the waxed paper, which apparently is entirely different from baking parchment, but I admit the pan was smoking a bit when I took it out of the oven, giving it a rebel rock-and-roll-fruitcake-from-hell kind of look. The bottom of the oven may have caught fire in places where the wax dripped, but that is understandable. The cookbook said to let it steam in foil until cold, and for a moment I was confused about how it would become cold, not just room temperature, and I was wondering if something chemical occurred between the cherries and brandy, but then I remembered knocking the frozen water out of the dog bowl in the indoor pantry as a child in Newfoundland. This recipe is from a place where things get cold in December. Of course, now I am wonder whether my fruitcake will get moldy before Christmas because it left it out at not-cold temperatures for a while. Leaning toward not. Mostly.