Originally, I wrote this complete piece as a rant against fruitcake, and a large part of it will remain a rant. I judge, I know, but I'm willing to bet a lot of us don't like fruitcake, and the younger the generation, the more they don't like it. Or they've never heard of it, unless someone is teasing them, as in, “Oh, you fruitcake!”

Fruitcake or fruit cake. You can spell it both ways and spellcheck won't make a peep, but it doesn't change what is inside of it.

For me, the real stopper is the unidentifiable candied fruit. Next, it's the tougher than tripe raisins. Sometimes, there are nuts, but they're like third cousins looking for a place at the table. And I think it has sawdust in it or in the parlance of today, cellulose. Check your labels, people, you're eating wood. Bah. Humbug.

And, as my too-big-for-her-britches niece says, “It's old people food.” Technically, it dates back to Roman times, so it's very old people food. But I know what she means. It's like harlequin ice cream, or ribbon candy, or that marshmallow, pineapple, whipped cream dish my mother made for special occasions. Euphoria, I think, or fantasia or, wait, I remember! It's called ambrosia. We all pretended we liked it because our mom thought she was giving us a treat and we didn't want to hurt her feelings. You do that for people you love, despite the creepiness of siphoning mini marshmallows through the gaps between your teeth. And by the way, before you say, “Hey, wait, I'm an old person!” I gotta say, “Hey, so am I! But I still can't eat the stuff.” Most of the time.

I've carried a fruitcake around for years, because, well, I loved the person who gave it to me. I bet he thinks I ate it, if he ever thinks of me at all. Back before refrigeration or salads, when England ruled the world and everyone wondered if what they cooked couldn't be improved upon but no one dared say anything, something like fruitcake would have been the all-purpose food. Lots of vitamins in the fruit, fiber and bulk in the cake itself, maybe some thick liquor soaked into it to muddle the fact that one hasn't bathed in weeks, all washed down with strong tea. It would sit in the tummy for days on end, waiting in line to emigrate. A full belly was a thing to be treasured then, as now, and if fruitcake was what did it, then all-fellow hail to it. But, this is today, and we have other options.

I know I join a long line of people who have written about hating this food. I know there are jokes, and more jokes, and that there can't possibly be more to say about it. It's been mocked for a long time.

And, actually, I admire people who can eat it. It proves their optimism to me, somehow. It shows me they don't care what others say. It says to me, “I am an individual who goes my own way. I am strong. I am invincible. I love fruitcake and I do not lie.” I'd like to get to know people who like it, better. I can learn from people like that.

So, good on you, fruitcake lovers. I raise a glass of pinot to you and to your weird affinity for a food as appealing to me as Scrooge's gruel. Party up, medievalists. Chew it up. Wash it down. Wash it down some more. Swallow. Swallow again. Cheers.

Postscript: Okay. I just ate half a fruitcake as imagined by Eventide Specialties in Boothbay Harbor. This may be the one exception I will make. This is not your great-great-great grandpa's recipe. It's the size of a large cupcake, and filled with huge walnuts crowded shoulder to shoulder with maraschino cherries, dried apricots, figs and two kinds of balsamic vinegar, fig and black cherry. Wow. Very rich, however. If you can eat a whole one, you will be full for a very long time. Perhaps old fruitcake haters can learn new fruitcake tricks. God bless us, everyone.