An Ode Upon Baking a Seasonal Confection, being loosely inspired by the poems of Mr. Robert Burns, the Scottish Bard, 1759-76
Thy glistening, fruit-filled, cakey batter,
With rum-soaked raisins and rich, fatty butter,
O, what promise of moist, tasty ecstasy!
Thine cherries drenched in Red Dye Number Seven,
And dry ingredients sifted to leaven,
I slide thee hence to preheated oven,
Upon following thine ancient recipe.
Borne on fragrant bouquet now therefore baking,
Upwardly wafting in scented waves thus making,
Thine aromas foster dreams of luscious reveries.
Wouldst some, unkindly, regard thee as a doorstop?
Or e’en call thee a paperweight ‘pon desktop?
Or fear onto their toes thy would drop?
Nae! Not I! For in thee I taste treasured memories.
Three hours hence, I test thy doneness with toothpick.
O, perfect result! So moistly dense, so dark and so thick!
Cans’t I even now taste thy fruity pleasures to be?
Those who laud their shortbread, sugar cookies and mince tarts;
Figgy puddings, gingersnaps, and spritzes that win hearts,
Ha’e ne’er reached the heights of fine arts,
That a fine fruit cake may inevitably see!
So, come now, thou doubters, and make haste,
A morsel of my cake you must taste,
A’fore judging the fruitcake quality!
With a nice mug of cocoa or e'en a fine cup of Earl Grey,
Thou judgements yet assailing may erelong go ‘way.
For I say to thee, “T’wouldn’t be Christmas, O, happy day!”
If I ha’e nae fruitcake to share with thee!
Merry Christmas! Happy Holidays!