Traditions deserve to be repeatted
ANTOINETTE JACKSON Mangia! Mangia!

Less than a month after Bob's parents met us at the Jet Port in Portland, Maine, it was our turn to pick them up at LAX in Los Angeles.

They were going to be staying in our apartment in Orange while we took our delayed honeymoon in Hawaii right after Christmas.

"What's in this suitcase, Dad, a bunch of bricks?" Bob said, as he lifted his father's luggage into the trunk of our car.

"A-yah. You know your mother," he replied in his best New England accent.

When we arrived home, Mother Jackson opened the bag and showed us four "bricks" wrapped in shiny red and green paper and tied with sparkling gold ribbons.

"Merry Christmas, Bobbie and Toni," she said as she handed us one.

Bob seemed thrilled to get it. I wasn't as excited. It looked like a fruitcake to me.

"Thanks, Ma. We'll put it under the tree for now," I said.

This was our first Christmas together and for the first time in my life I would be spending it away from my parents.

On Christmas morning, after a quick phone call to my folks, Ma, Dad, Bob and I drove to his brother Dick's home in Glendora. Rosie and I hugged as she greeted us at the door.

I liked my new sister-in-law. Her mother and father came from Switzerland and settled in Maine about the same time my family came from Italy to Chicago.

She too was the "first daughter of emigrant parents," as she so aptly put it

One by one, the West Coast Jackson siblings streamed in.

As I was introduced to my new in-laws, as was my family's custom, I hugged them.

The tenseness in their shoulders told me this wasn't their family's custom.

"Oh well, they'll get used to it," I told myself.

Ten of us sat down to a wonderful Christmas dinner.

"Lovely" Mother Jackson would say to Rosie after each course.

She definitely enjoyed be served a formal meal.

When the table was cleared and coffee served, Rosie cut into her fruitcake and served it along with the other desserts.

Now came the moment of truth. I didn't like fruitcake.

It was dry and stuck in my throat and candied citrus fruit almost made me gag.

But, my new mother-in-law and fatherin law had obviously spent a lot of time making this and there was no way I was going to get out of eating it.

I raised my fork and braced myself.

"This is really good," I heard myself saying in a surprised tone of voice.

Once again, just like at her home in Portland, I had underestimated Mother Jackson's superb baking skills.

"Ma's an expert baker, cook and caterer," my husband reminded me just as I reached for another bite.

Her fruitcake was dark, rich and moist with lots of walnuts, dates, and glazed cherries. It was held together with just the just the right amount of batter and rum.

"What were you expecting? That infamous fruitcake that's been said to have circled the world several times" chimed in my quick-witted new brother-in-law Roger.

I didn't know it at the time, but my inlaws were sharing their roots.

Maine fruitcakes went back to the days in England when a cake made with candied fruit was a delicacy only splurged on for the holidays.

After that first Christmas, and for the next decade, I looked forward to the cakes my mother-in-law and father-in-law so lovingly made for us.

During one of our visits back to Maine for Thanksgiving, Ma said, "We're not making fruitcakes this year."

"It's become too much for us," Dad added. Now in their seventies, the time had come to break the tradition. Bob and I both understood but were disappointed.

I liked to cook but I knew I wouldn't be baking fruitcakes or I would have asked for her recipe.

Ma probably would have answered it was out of either the Fanny Farmer, New York Times or Woodford's Congregational Church cookbooks.

Not long after the holiday cakes ended, we had moved to East Texas and were visiting our friends Jim and Gail Baum who lived across Lake Athens from us.

"How would you like some coffee and fruitcake," Gail offered.

"I only like my mother-in-law's fruitcake," I blurted out.

Then, as in 1974, I aimed my fork and braced myself.

The cake was full of pecans, dates, pineapples and big red cherries.

"Wow, this almost taste's like Ma's. Where did you get it?" I asked.

"It's from a little German bakery down the highway in Palestine," answered Jim.

The next Christmas, Texas Pecan Cakes went out from Eilenberger's to Mother and Dad Jackson and Bob's brothers and sisters.

The fruitcake aficionados in Maine and California claimed they were almost as good as Ma's homemade cakes.

Sadly, in 1993, Ralph's name came off our list and in 2003 Clara's and Mother Jackson's names were removed.

Next week, Bob and I are going back to California for our Granddaughter's wedding and will spend Thanksgiving with Dick and Rosie.

Three fruitcakes are in the bottom drawer of my refrigerator ready to be packed in my suitcase.

Just like Ma did 33 years ago, I will be hand carrying special holiday loaves back to our family in California.

Call me sentimental, but some family traditions and the warm memories they conjure up deserve to be repeated.

!

Antoinette Jackson is a Bullard-area resident. You may reach her at Antojxn@aol.com.