Memories
By: Donald Merhaut
Tags: Pittsburgh, Winter, Fruitcake, Christmas

Making Fruitcakes and other Christmas Traditions in Pittsburgh Pennsylvania

I wrote this story for me and my family, but since the world has been captive for most of 2020, I figured I would share it and give you all something to read this holiday. The story is about 30 pages, with photos, but I have broken it up into chapters, which are usually just a paragraph or two, for easier reading. The main plot revolves around preparing for Christmas in Pittsburgh, PA and the tradition of making fruitcakes. This story continues into the present though, as I have new adventures in perfecting this family delicacy — Quit laughing, you just haven’t had one of our fruitcakes!

The backdrop for these memories is the blustery, snowy winters in Pittsburgh, and how we plowed and skidded our way through this crazy weather as we dealt with day-to-day living and getting ready for Christmas. Many of the references are late 1960s through the 70s — some of the worst winters Pittsburgh had that century. However, the journey goes into the 80s and 90s and continues to this very day — collecting the ingredients for the fruitcakes each year, discovering new places and making new friends. The story has been written, edited and added to over the past 27 years and is only written when I am making fruitcakes. All of my Mom’s brothers (5) and one of two sisters were still alive when I started writing this, so I took the opportunity to ask them questions when I needed clarification on things. I started writing on Christmas Day in 1994, the first Christmas after my mother’s passing. I originally wrote it for me. As my close friend, Harold, pointed out, it is my therapy, but I also never want to forget the wonderful memories of my family’s Christmases. However, since I am now sharing the story, I realize that I need to explain certain events (1986–1994) in my life that not only inspired me to write these passages, but really changed my attitude about life and how to truly live it!

Preface: My schooling and the family (1986–1994)

The years of 1986–1993 were a time of life-in-transition for me — Ironically, even though I was pursuing my MS and Ph.D. degrees; my most valuable lessons did not come from textbooks, but rather from the people that I met along the way. Later on, when my Mom got sick and when I was finishing my education, life seemed traumatic and out of control. However, it was the road I had to travel, regardless of the proverbial potholes and bumps — sometimes there are no detours in life and you have to drive right through the storm. I survived and it really changed my life for the better. This first four chapters of this story are about my experiences traveling and living in Georgia and Florida and my Mom getting sick ……..

Chapter 1: Highways, Giftshops and Roadside Rests!

Pennsylvania has all four seasons, which are beautiful. Summer is particularly nice, especially when it lands on the 4th of July weekend! However, after dealing with the harsh winters in western Pennsylvania, I decided that I wanted to explore the South — Georgia and Florida. I did my Master’s degree at the University of Georgia (1986–1988). I then started the University of Florida in 1989 for my Ph.D.

Moving this far south from Pennsylvania meant a lot of driving. Every year I would drive home for Christmas. This was the most exciting part of my holiday — driving home in anticipation of the holidays. It was a long drive, 1016 miles from Florida. I started on the 75, then the 85, up to the 77 then onto the 19. I have always loved driving the interstates. In fact, at one point in my life, I thought about being a truck driver because of my lure to the highways. People traveling have a special energy: they have destinations and new experiences on the horizon. They are optimistic but anxious to see what’s ahead — a true personality trait unique to Americans. Afterall, that is why our forefathers transversed the seas to come to America; exploring and seeking a better life is in our blood. The highways and interstates are like the arteries of this country, pumping life throughout our nation; the pulse of which is tractor trailers, RVs, motorcycles, cars with luggage stacked on the rooftops, and buses. The truck stops, just brief stop-overs in our journeys, are the best places to meet other fellow “gypsies of the highways”. Truck stops are full of life, day and night, and the smell of diesel is always hanging in the air, especially on warm summer nights — Oddly, that energized me and still does to this day. Truck stops are good places to eat; they give you plenty and there is always a gift shop next to the restaurant — what could I buy? How strange, when we are traveling, we buy the weirdest things. Afterall, we rationalize, we may not be back at this place again. So, after eating lunch and purchasing my dinosaur made out of seashells (Photo 1), I was on my way.

Photo 1: Shelly, my seashell dinosaur that I bought at the truckstop

Now when going home from Christmas, I would stop to get breakfast at the Waffle House — we didn’t have those in western Pennsylvania. They had scrambled eggs with chili, cheese and pieces of ham, which I ordered. The waitress yelled it back “I need a scramble, scattered, smothered and chunked” — Seriously? That sounds more like the horrible aftermath of a fraternity party, and not my breakfast. I still ate it though. I was only there to get caffeinated anyway so that I could drive all the way home without driving off of the road. The other annual stop I made was the Plantation House. They sold pecans and pecan confections and butter pecan ice cream cones. The sweetest things were the pecan logs — a dense marshmallow-like nougat rolled in pecans; sugar to the N’th degree, but a great stocking stuffer. Of course, like all southern gift shops and gas stations, you could choose from any flavor of fried port skins that you could imagine plus boiled peanuts, of course. I thought southern folks were an odd bunch: they fry anything and everything, but they boil their peanuts — “Ummm, do yinz have roasted peanuts?” (Damn I said Yinz, I meant yall!) — I would always attempt to hide my Yankee Pittsburgh dialect, but with constant failure. Me, being a German kid from Pittsburgh, I wanted my pretzels, but I settled for the roasted peanuts. I would have to wait until I crossed the Mason Dixon line to get my pretzels. I must say though, after several years, I acquired a craving for boiled peanuts, or as Southerners say “bolled” peanuts. I would go to Piggly Wiggly’s (Photo 2) just for their Cajun style boiled peanuts.

Photo 2: A quick stop at Piggly Wiggly’s for some Cajun-style boiled peanuts. I even bought a Piggly Wiggly shirt!

Driving home at Christmas was cool for a budding horticulturist, since I drove from the warm summer-like temperatures and scenery of Georgia or Florida, to autumn in the southern Appalachians and finally a winter scene once I got north of Virginia. Everyone was in the holiday spirit — sporting tacky sweaters, and decorating their cars with wreaths and toy deer antlers. Cars were pack full of presents and restless children, excited about Santa coming. Every exit to a mall was backed up along the highway with shoppers hurrying to buy their last-minute gifts. Roadside rests were bustling with people, usually moms and dads chasing down their little ones — the occasional whine of “Are we therrrrrre yet?” or “Mom I gotta peeee!” could be heard at least a dozen times during my 20-minute stop. Once back on the road, Christmas music was playing on every radio station, it was the only choice for music this time of year. Every time Bing Crosby would sing “I’ll be home for Christmas”, I would tear up. However, after the 100th time, I was actually ready to be home.

Chapter 2: Christmas 1991 and Mom’s cancer diagnosis

Fast-forward to 1991. I remember returning back to Florida after Christmas of 1991. Mom did not look good, and I knew something was wrong. A few weeks later, Mom was diagnosed with cancer. I returned in February for her surgery. It was a 12-hour Whipple procedure, and we were not sure that she would pull through, but she did. After the surgery, I saw the one of the doctors and I coerced him into sharing the results of mom’s x-rays with me. He indicated that the x-rays still showed some cancer. My legs almost gave out, but somehow, I was able to keep my composure. I walked down the hallway to the waiting room and we celebrated my birthday. Nobody was aware of the test results and I did not tell them. I held it together somehow, and my present was that Mom was able to celebrate my birthday with me. The surgery went as well as expected; however, I knew this only bought us time, hopefully up to two years, which it did.

Chapter 3: 1992 Christmas and Mom’s cancer returns

In 1992, I again came home for Christmas. Mom was weaker, but we both worked together to make the fruitcakes. I held back the tears and diligently took notes. That summer of 1993, the cancer returned. Personally, this was really hard for me, since I was finishing my Ph.D. I knew I had to finish that year if my mom was going to see me graduate. Fortunately, I had several close friends and classmates to lean on in Florida — I will forever be grateful and will never forget them. The night I found out that Mom’s cancer was back, I went over to my friends, Nick and AnnaLynn. Nick fell asleep and AnnaLynn and I watched the movie “What’s eating Gilbert Grape”. Unknowing to me, the symbolism in this movie was a crystal ball of sorts for things to come.

Chapter 4: Graduation 1993

My graduation was on December 18th, 1993. Mom and Dad came down for the commencements. This was the first time my mother flew in a plane. I was very excited, but nervous. The Gainesville airport was small with one terminal. When Mom and Dad got off of the plane and I saw them, I nearly fainted: Mom was in a wheelchair and had lost a lot of weight. I could recognize her, but was shocked at how fast her health had declined.

Since they arrived a few days early, we did some sightseeing around central Florida. Oddly enough, there was a year-round Christmas store just south of Gainesville. We went there since Mom loved Christmas so much and she wanted to get the grandkids some ornaments for gifts. The Christmas store had every kind of ornament ever imagined. In the middle of the store was a giant music box which played Christmas music, which made the whole place just magical, and for a brief moment, I think it took away the pain and sadness that we were feeling.

Two days later, we attended commencements, which took place in the basketball arena. I remember seeing Mom and Dad up in the bleachers. During the speech, the Dean indicated that we students could not have achieved our degrees without the emotional support of our families. He then asked that the families stand up in recognition of their support. My Mother struggled, but she got up out of that wheel chair. I just sobbed. I just couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. I should have been happy for that special day, but I felt like my heart was being torn from my chest: I knew I was losing my Mom soon.

After the ceremony, Mom and Dad flew home and I drove back to Pittsburgh. We celebrated Christmas, and again, Mom and I made the fruitcakes together. By February, mom was back in the hospital in ICU. I was now living in Houston, where I started a postdoc, so I had to fly back home. I spent the weekend at the hospital. Mom could hear us, but could not respond, but she would squeeze our hand. The ICU nurses told me that I have to tell my mom that it is okay for her to leave us and that we would be alright, which I did — the hardest thing I ever did. I went back to Houston after that weekend and Mom died a week later on my birthday.

Photo 3: Mom and me, 1964

Thirty years ago, she brought me into this world (Photo 3), and 30 years later, she left me. This was devastating at the time, but later it became bitter-sweet for I realized that even though I lost my Mom, life had to go on and I had to make the best of it.

The funeral was surreal. We had an unusual ice storm the night before the funeral service. The day of her burial, the sun came out, and every tree, roof top, and fence were glistening with ice, as if we were having the service in a crystal winter wonderland. My mother loved crystal and I thought that she would have wanted it this way. Despite the circumstances of that day, the scene put a smile on my face.

Death is part of life. Both my Mom and Dad worked hard to make a great life for me and my siblings, and I was not going to waste that life. However, with Mom passing away at 65, I knew life could be short and that time goes fast. I wanted to keep their memories alive so I started to write this story. Writing this during the holidays has made me feel closer to them, almost as if they were here with me. These are those memories…..

Chapter 5: Memories

Christmas was a big holiday for my family. It started on December 6th, with the feast of St. Nicholas. Our stockings were the first decorations up and we always had candy and other goodies in our stockings that morning. However, one of the most important Christmas traditions in our family was making the fruitcakes. As far as the family remembers, making fruitcakes appears to have started with my Mom’s Grandmother back in the early 1900’s. Of course, fruitcakes have been made for centuries. Historically, fruitcakes were made for weddings and other celebrations. Because the cakes are so nutrient dense and preserved with alcohol, they were also taken with people who had to travel on long journeys.

In our family, Great Grandma passed the recipe down my Grandma, who then passed it down to my Mom. Many recall Grandma mixing the candied fruit and nuts and cake batter with her hands. I also remember my Mom mixing the batter into the fruit and nuts with her hands. It was messy, but wooden spoons would just break. For one batch, there was so much fruit and nuts that my Mom had to use the big blue porcelain roasting pan — both the bottom and the lid turned upside-down (Photos 4). This is the same roasting pan that my Mom used to make the turkey on Thanksgiving and pork and sauerkraut on New Year’s Day.

Photos 4: Blue Porcelain roasting pan with dried fruits and nuts soaking in brandy

Chapter 6: Leg-Work

Let’s go back to the late 1960’s and early 70’s. Our house was a small (by today’s standards), 1100 ft2 home, but a three story with a basement, so three flights of stairs. When I was born, my Mother was 35 and she was already having difficulty walking due to the early onset of rheumatoid arthritis. My sister, who was nine years old at the time, would go upstairs to get me out of the crib for my Mom. By the time I was six or seven, I remember helping mom get things. I would go down to the basement and get the ingredients and pots that Mom needed to make dinner or for the many cookies and pies that she was making that day. Since I was the youngest in the family, I had the job on a permanent basis. I made a game of it. After a while, my Mom just would say that she needed all the stuff for something like spaghetti sauce, and I knew that meant the blue pot with the chip in it, a jar of canned tomatoes, a can of tomato puree and two cans of tomato paste. I was proud of myself, knowing what was needed without being told. Over the next 15 years, Mom and I continued this routine. Little did I know at the time, that I was learning how to cook, just by being Mom’s go-getter.

Chapter 7: “Let me Help”

Since I was five years younger than the next sibling in our family, I was the only one home with Mom during the school year. Everyone was in school, so I had nobody to play with, so I helped Mom with things. The kitchen was Mom’s favorite room. She just loved to cook and The Andrew Sisters always seemed to be belting out a tune on the little radio that sat on top of the refrigerator. I helped a lot, but was probably in the way more than I was helpful. Mom made bread on Mondays and I got to punch down the bread dough. I loved to do that because the dough would burp. She always used the big yellow glass bowl for the dough, that same one we used for popcorn on Sunday nights when we watched Walt Disney. Mom also made homemade egg noodles. My job was to break up and spread the noodles over the dining room table to dry.

During the holidays, I got to decorate a lot of cookies. Mom starting baking Christmas cookies the week after Thanksgiving. She would make up to 50 different kinds of cookies: nut horns, spritz candy canes, fudge, thumbprints, buckeyes, etc. I know I got colored sugar everywhere, but Mom still let me help her make those wonderful Santa Claus faces. We had a cuckoo clock in the diningroom that on the half and hour would cuckoo, I think during the holidays my Mother kept hearing… cookies, cookies, cookies! Pittsburghers have a homemade cookie fetish. However, I think my Mom set the bar pretty high, even by Pittsburgh standards. Learning how to make Mom’s other goodies over the years has been easier to do, since I remember things like how thick the batter should be, or how to get cakes out of the pans without the cake falling apart or sticking. I always sat at the kitchen table and watched Mom cook, not realizing that I was learning how to cook. The fruitcakes were no exception.

N’at: (‘and that’ or ‘side note’ or ‘in addition to’ in Pittsburghese ) Pittsburghers are known for their homemade cookie obsession — whether for a holiday or a family celebration, but especially for weddings — All of the aunts always pitched in to make cookies for the cookie table. I even know of one feud in my family over cookies — who was making what and whose cookies were better for a wedding reception! The other obsessions of this steel town have been and will always be football, pretzels and beer! Only in a Pittsburgh grocery store, will you find a whole isle dedicated to pretzels, but also pretzel snack trays in the deli section.

Chapter 8: Over Hill over Dale

Christmas, and making fruitcakes, could not begin without shopping for the ingredients first. The fruitcakes had a lot of fruits, nuts and spices, and it was a job just to get these ingredients. We had to go to a couple grocery stores and one baking supply store to get everything. Negotiating Pittsburgh roads in the winter was an adventure in and of itself….

No matter where you lived in Pittsburgh, you had to go up and down hills to get to and from work, stores, church, or anywhere else. Navigating these hills during the winter was no easy task, especially since half the streets were laid with Belgium blocks, which were slippy even after a rain, which seemed like all the time in this town. To add insult to injury, half the city streets also had streetcar tracks that you had to labor through without tearing up your tires. And you know you are from Pittsburgh, if you ever had to follow a salt truck to make it home! If you walked, things were no better: you had to slalk (slide-walk) down the city steps, which was like trekking over glaciers in the winter. We all grew up doing this, and we never gave it a second thought. When we knew a snow storm was coming, Dad would drive to the milk store to get eggs and about four gallons of milk. The milk was placed on the back porch, since it was so cold out, the milk and other perishables never spoiled. It was usually frozen usually with all the snow we got (Photo 5).

Photo 5: Me after a good snowstorm, late 1960s

To make driving possible, the city would place wooden salt boxes at the base of the most notorious hills at the beginning of winter. These boxes, about 3’ x 2’ x 2’, were filled with salt. People would use this salt if they got stuck going up the hill. Ivyglen was the street that we had to drive up to get to our street. Ivyglen was a narrow street, with houses, each perched up on the hill on one side, and a down-sloping hillside of woods on the right. There was just enough room for one car, and everyone knew that the car going up the hill had the right-of-way. The routine of getting successfully up this hill in the winter time is ingrained in my memory. My two brothers and sister were in the back seat and I was in the front seat with my Mom (no seatbelts back then!). My Dad would idle the car on the flat part at the bottom of the hill and wait for the street to be clear of cars coming down the hill. He would then put out his Camel in the ashtray, turn off the radio, and my Mother would say, with a quiver in her voice, “Now you kids be quiet while your father drives up the hill!” We wouldn’t even breath. My Dad would floor it to get a running start and we would slide up the hill until we had to turn left onto Odette. The way Dad would do it, is that he would go a little further up past our street and then do a semi-fishtail left onto Odette, barely missing the ditches on either side of the street. If anyone came down the hill, my Dad would yell, “get out of the way you jaggerass!” My Mother would whine back “Oh Hun, such language! Is that necessary?” My white-knuckled Mom, even though she didn’t drive, always seemed to think she had a brake on her side too, since she was always pressing her right foot against the car floor, as if she could stop the car. I think that my Dad, on the other hand, truly enjoyed the challenge, always thinking he was Mario Andretti. It was a true adrenaline rush for him!

While a burden to adults, these hills were the winter playground for us kids. There was a regular ritual after a nighttime snowfall. We would go down to the kitchen and listen to the radio to hear if our school, St. Norbert’s, was cancelled. It was like listening for your winning numbers in the lottery. We would turn on KDKA (the oldest radio station in the country, by the way) and listen intently. “St. Wendelin’s, cancelled, St. Basils, cancelled, all city public schools, two hour delay”… My heart was in my throat, ‘”Who cares about those other schools, what about St. Norbert’s?” Surely, they wouldn’t make us put our lives in danger by going out is this Godforsaken weather! Then, finally….”St. Norbert’s, cancelled!” YES! I couldn’t get my snow boots on fast enough to go sled riding. Funny — it took forever to put those same boots on when we had to go to school, but it was a piece of cake when we were going out sled riding! While having a snow day for kids was a vacation, it was like prison sentence for moms. My mom would let out a sigh and roll her eyes. Once we had some hot oatmeal in our stomachs, she was pretty ‘helpful’ in getting us dressed and out the door. In our neighborhood, we used Horning St. (Photo 6) which went down into the church parking lot, about a half mile of sheer fear and joy! How ironic, that we couldn’t walk to school, but we sure as hell could sled ride practically to the school’s front door. On occasion we would even see the nuns outside enjoying the snow. Because of their black and white robes, we referred to them as the penguins. A waddle of penguin-nuns in the school yard was a very appropriate scene on a snowy winter day. All the kids in the neighborhood would be out after a snow, which seemed like every day from Christmas until the beginning of March. We wore our sleds and toboggans out. By lunch we had to take a break and come in to eat. Hot Campbell’s tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches were the common lunch menu items in our house. Then, back outside. Usually mom had hot chocolate for us later in the day. We were pretty darn tired at the end of the day. After dinner, it was nice to go to a warm bed and cuddle with my dog Tramp (Photo 7), dreaming of the next day’s adventures — hoping that school would be cancelled yet again!

Photo 6: Sledding down Horning St. Look Mom, no hands. Usually my cousin Lori was with me on these outtings. — She probably got cold and went in.

Photo 7: My dog, Tramp.

Chapter 9: “I’ve been working on the railroad, all the live long day”

Despite the treacherous roads, we had to drive to get everything, from Dad’s paycheck to the groceries. As an adult, I have come to realize that Christmas doesn’t come cheap! Things were expensive back then, especially because of double-digit inflation in the 70s. Fruitcakes were expensive to make and the money had to come from somewhere — That’s where Dad came in. He worked for the Pennsylvania Railroad. In the early years, he also worked for Gulf Gas Station. He would come home from the railroad, take a nap on the couch, and then get up and go to work at Gulf for a few hours. He was a tough one to get up and he always had indigestion. Mom would plop two alka seltzer tablets in a glass of water and coax him to get up- “Let’s go Hunnnn……… the alka-zletzer is losing its fizzzzzzzz!”. He would finally get up, and then drink his coffee with cream and sugar — he would always clang the spoon on the inside the coffee cup when he stirred it — that’s how I knew he was up. (Funny what things we remember).

Later in my childhood, when Dad just worked for the railroad, he would have Monday and Tuesday off. Monday night, after dinner, we would go to the railroad office to pick up Dad’s paycheck (no direct deposits back then). We would drive down Beck’s Run road, a zigzagging road that meandered back and forth over a set of old railroad tracks through a steep gully which led to the Monongahela River. There were steep woods that towered on either side of the road, so in the summer, with the car windows down, it was a particularly cool and refreshing ride that we enjoyed and did on occasion, just to cool off (nobody had air conditioning). I asked Mom and Dad why was that road was so twisty? They said, a long time ago, a drunk driver was being chased by the police, and they kept driving up and down that same gully. Before they knew it, the road was formed and they just kept it that way! I was six at the time, so of course I believed them.

On one trip to the railroad, Mom decided to put on nail polish as Dad was driving. Dad, in disgust, yelled out, “Gawd hun, that smell, what are you trying to do, kill me?” I was in the back seat. Now Dad would smoke his Camels in the car all the time — he was a “three pack a day” man. I absolutely hated this. So, when he snapped at my Mom, I spoke my piece — “Wait a minute, that’s not fair, we have to put up with your smoking all of the time”. Before I could get the last word out, my Dad spouted out “shup (shut up) Don, just shup”. Though I couldn’t see my Mom’s face, I knew she was smirking and thinking, “you tell him Don”. I was the youngest, so I could get away with these comments. I was never shy about speaking up!

Most Monday night trips to the railroad were peaceful though and the short gloomy days of winter meant it was dark by the time we got to the railroad office which was located between two steel mills along the river. Everything was either gray, brown or black: even the piles of snow were speckled black with soot and cinders. The area was flat and barren, with the exception of an old train bridge that eerily loamed out over the river. You could see the smoke spewing from the mill stacks on the other side of the river. The air was heavy with the smell of sulfur from the mills and the burning oil from the trains. Since the mills ran 24–7, the giant smoke stacks were always brightly lit, almost like Christmas trees. The cold black water of the river dimly reflected all of those lights. On occasion, a tugboat would drift down the river, pushing barges full of coal, temporarily blocking the light reflections from the water. In front of the railroad office, there was a gravel clearing that served as a parking lot. Smack-dab in the middle was a dimly-lit street light, its’ top covered in snow and icicles precariously hanging down around the sides. This light post towered above a coarsely-branched, leafless staghorn sumac tree. This tree probably wasn’t planted: it was obviously a volunteer that probably started from a seed that a bird pooped out when it was perched on the light post. This tree, though dormant, was the only meager sign of life around here and the shadows cast by its’ thick, gnarly branches were like the creepy hands from Dracula or a witch: it was a more of a scene from Halloween, not Christmas.

Mom and I waited in the car while Dad went in the office. While we waited we would play word games, choose a word on a railroad car and come up with other words using those letters. Other times, if a train was going by, we would count the number of railroad cars on that train. On the way home, we always stopped at Isleys Deli for a Klondike bar.

Chapter 10: Hains Grocery Store and a lady named Irene

The next morning, we would first go to the bank to cash the paycheck. Being that I was a little cute chubby kid, the bank teller would always give me a lollipop. Every week mom would tuck away $20 dollars in another part of her purse, to save up for these extra special Christmas needs. Occasionally mom grabbed the wrong purse when we left the house. She would say, “Oh, I left my coupons in my other purse” — and we would have to make a quick trip back to the house: She only had a black purse and a white purse. The next stop was Hains Grocery Store, which was on Route 51, across the street from the old slag dump (Photos 8 and 9). This was a hill made out of slag, the leftovers from the steel mills that were dumped out of train cars over the years. This slag hill was later leveled for a chain of restaurants, theaters and Century III Mall. I still have a piece of that slag.

Photo 8: Trains dumping molten slag over the manmade hill along route 51. Photo courtesy: www.Brooklineconnection.com

Photo 9: The expansive hill of slag along Route 51. Photo courtesy: www.Brooklineconnection.com

At Hains, Mom got the flour (a 50 lb sack), orange juice, coffee and raisins and what my she called ‘smearies’ (Muscat raisins) for the fruitcakes, along with the regular weekly groceries. The lady working at the register was named Irene. From her accent, I would guess that she was Middle-Eastern. Irene was a very sweet lady with jet-black hair who always had a smile on her face — and for some reason, I never forgot her. Of course, there were no barcodes then, so everything was rung up manually — tap, tap, cha-ching, tap tap, cha-ching. These old registers slowed us down, but I think that was a good thing — it gave people a chance to talk to each other.

Chapter 11: Trip to the ‘Frozen Eggs and Fruit Co. Store’ in Mount Washington

Not all of the ingredients could be found at a regular grocery store like Hains. We had one special store, the Frozen Eggs and Fruit Co.336, which was truly my favorite part of this journey through Christmas past. The candied fruit, dates and figs were purchased at this store. It was located on 121 Boggs Ave., up in Mount Washington, on the south side of Pittsburgh. We made a wonderful trip to this store twice a year — the other time was for ingredients for the nut rolls Mom made at Easter. The building was a red and tan brick structure, which butted up to the sidewalk. The store was located in a neighborhood with houses on the rest of the street. The store was probably a neighborhood grocery store in its heyday. None of the houses had front yards and there was only street parking. Since parking was a premium, after a big snow, people would shovel out their parking spaces and place a chair in the cleared-out space to reserve their parking space when they left for work; otherwise, they had no place to park when they got home. Parallel parking in between snow piles was a skill everyone mastered in this city and you never ever took someone’s parking space. — Pittsburghers are a friendly people, but don’t take their shoveled-out parking spaces! Fortunately, the store had cleared their few parking spaces so that we could park. Otherwise, Dad would drop us off at the store front and he would drive around until he found a parking space. The inside of the ‘Frozen Eggs and Fruit Co. Store’ was very plain — a gray concrete floor, low metal shelves with an assortment of fruits and nuts wrapped in plain, clear, unmarked plastic bags. I just loved the smell of that store — all of the different chocolates and dried fruits and spices made for a spicy-sweet nutty fragrance that I will fondly remember for the rest of my life. Don’t forget, that during this time, spices and tropical fruits were relatively expensive and exotic, if they were available at all, especially in places like Pittsburgh during the long cold winters. The colorful candied pineapples, cherries and other tropical delicacies were welcomed treats reserved for special occasions like Christmas. The main glass counter with the old cash register was towards the back of the store. The glass cases displayed figurines for cakes such as clowns, flowers, and little brides and grooms. These little cake decorations were like toys to me, and in a sense, the entire store was Mom’s version of her toy store! What a special place, and to Mom and me, a trip there meant the beginning of the Christmas season. To this day, I still go to local baking supply stores at Christmas time to look at the cute cake decorating figurines in the glass cases and smell the aroma of the spices and sweets to bring back my memories of Mom in her kitchen. I tear up and smile at the same time, but THIS is Christmas to me — the memories.

Chapter 12: Oh nuts, Oh Dixie!

The nuts that were traditionally used were usually black walnuts, which the family collected from wild trees. Usually in late October we would drive out to Round Hill Park to collect nuts: We knew where the trees were and we occasionally would check on these trees to see how the ‘crop’ was coming along. Mom made a picnic lunch, and we would make a day of it. Grandpap’s job was to crack the nuts with a brick. Over the years, that brick was worn with a depression where he placed the nut. What a messy job, since these were black walnuts and would stain anything that touched them. I do believe Mom also bought walnuts at the Frozen Eggs and Fruit Co.

In 1986, traditions slightly changed. That was the year that I started my Master’s Degree at the University of Georgia — the land of ‘Gone with the Wind’, warm steamy breezes blowing through the Spanish moss-ladened Live Oak trees, and fields and fields of peach trees and pecan trees. Since I was studying horticulture, my first research project was associated with pecan nut development. During the first summer away from home, I learned how to drive a stick-shift truck, eat and love grits and fried catfish, and what a charged electric fence felt like (don’t ask!). During this time, I worked with a pecan farmer named Newt. He was a gray-haired, gentle and truly southern man in his late 60’s, whose wisdom and many years dedicated to farming were reflected in his sun-tanned leathery skin and faded straw hat. He taught me how to identify different pecan cultivars in his plantation by the color and texture of the bark. Newt let the university use his pecan groves for some research. I had to be in his field to collect nuts before the morning sun shined on the trees. Unfortunately, he also had cows in his groves to graze on the grass. Since I was the first one in that field in the morning, those damn cows thought I was there to feed them. I had to climb on the top of the pickup truck to collect nut samples, and by the time I would climb down out of my first tree, about 50 cows were gathered under the tree and would be staring up at me with their big brown eyes wanting breakfast. Fortunately for me, no cranky bulls were in the group, so I was pretty safe. Newt had an interesting saying –‘Ya know what the difference is between pee-cans and pehcahns?’ — Pee-cans are picked in Georgia for $1 a pound and sold to Yankees as pehcahns for $5 a pound “. Newt also taught me that the best pecan was the Stuart variety. This is a plump nut full of oil, which is perfect for baking and eating. Most of the pecans sold are the ‘Schley’, which are easy to shell but a little on the dry side. So that Christmas, I bought home 25 pounds of Stuart pecans, which Mom used in her fruitcakes from that time on.

Mom kept the nuts in the freezer in the basement. I brought 25 lbs. of nuts home every year. It seems that we had a rat in the house that was able to steal them out of the freezer, usually during the evening when Johnny Carson was on TV. Dad was the only one up at this time, but he swore he never saw any rat, even though we often found pecan crumbs on his chair in the living room the next morning — hmmmmmm?

Back to Pittsburgh and making of the fruitcakes…..

Chapter 13: Morning coffee and we’re off!

Once all of the ingredients were together, it was time to make the fruitcakes. The night before making the fruitcakes, the fruits and nuts were chopped and mixed together and placed in the blue porcelain roasting pan. I don’t have the original roasting pan; however, I have a replica, minus the chip in the bottom corner! I recently bought another one for a friend. My partner said “give them your old one and you keep the new one.” I replied, “Are you kidding? — my pan is about 25-years-old now and it finally has its’ own patina of memories, which are far more valuable!” All of the fruit and nuts were mixed in the bottom pan and the lid turned upside down, since all of it will not fit in one pan. Once mixed thoroughly, apricot brandy was poured over fruit and nuts and covered for the night. That evening, Mom also had a glass of apricot brandy as well — one of the rare times that she drank alcohol. The other time she drank is when our Uncle Jim brought us homemade wine.

Mom was the first to get up in the morning. I was also an early riser, and when I was older, I enjoyed drinking coffee with her in our little kitchen on those cold winter mornings. The kitchen had a small square white Formica table, with a gold speckle finish. It butted up to the stove on one side and a window on the other side, so that only two people could sit at the table. The window was always steamed up from Mom’s cooking. The coffee was made in a clear, glass coffee percolator on the stove. After we had our coffee, Mom would percolate the coffee for a while longer to make it rich and dark — and somewhat bitter. This was used as one of the liquid additions in the batter. The batter was mixed with a hand mixer in — what else? — the large yellow glass bowl. All of the butter, spices, coffee and orange juice were added, then the flour. This was the tricky part — the batter had to be thick enough to drip from the spoon, but leave a little form in the bowl, but still be somewhat runny. Once the batter was the right consistency, some flour was added to the fruit and nuts. Mom said that this was done to make sure that the batter stuck to the fruit. Once the fruit and nuts were coated with flour, the batter was poured into fruit and nut mixture. This was the hard and messy part. You had to use your hands or a strong, metal industrial-strength spoon. I found two big metal spoons that work well for me. This is still messy, but part of the process.

Chapter 14: The bread pans

The loaf pans used were Ovenex Perfect Bakeware- Ecko №7, made in the U.S.A. They were handed down to me from Mom. They were used by Mom, and I use them religiously and solely for the fruitcakes. The pans were coated with Crisco and the bottoms were lined with paper, cut out from the paper grocery bags Mom got at Hains. As a side note, I also have the original rolling pin that Mom used, which was Grandma’s. Though not needed for fruitcakes, I use the rolling pin when making bread and pies. It doesn’t have handles, nor do I recall it ever having handles. Grandma must have broken those off years ago (probably another good story).

The mixture was scooped into the pans and packed down. The fruitcakes were then slowly baked for 2½ hours in a warm oven. The spicy smell of those fruitcakes permeated the house all day, because several batches were made throughout the day.

To this day, when I make the fruitcakes, that same wonderful aroma fills my kitchen with wonderful memories of Christmases past with my Mom. This is the time of the year that I feel closest to my Mom and when I miss her the most.

How do I know that my fruitcakes are like my Mom’s? I saved the last fruitcake that Mom made and had a slice each year for 13 years. Each year I would taste hers and compare it to my batch. My Mom did the same thing after her Mom died. I know that Mom would be proud of me for carrying on one of the family’s favorite traditions and keeping their memories alive.

Chapter 15: Trains, Trains, Trains — and a streetcar named the Shannon Drake

Now aside from the fruitcakes and cookies, we had other Christmas traditions. Dad’s passion for trains was as strong as my Mom’s love of baking. While Mom was busy baking in the kitchen, Dad’s duty each Christmas was to create a miniature town under the Christmas tree (Photo 10). This village came complete with people, streetlights, a train depot, a town square and even a farm with a fruit orchard, all nestled below little snow-capped hills, with a wonderful smoke-spewing Lionel train chugging around the town and our towering Christmas tree! For a little boy, my parents were the perfect match: I always had a full tummy and a full heart!

Setting up the train platform and tree took some work and Dad was in charge. Dad recruited us boys to get the platform up from the basement. I was about eight years old at the time, so my job was to get in the way and play with things that I shouldn’t — like the staple gun (another story, another time)! The platform took up half the living room. The rest of the Christmas decorations were up in the attic. When dad would crawl in there and pull out the Christmas boxes, I could just smell the magical Christmas dust! Oh my gosh, I was just so excited. Opening up the boxes of Christmas decorations was as exciting as opening presents on Christmas morning. My favorite box was the one with all of the trains. Now, by the early 70s, the HO scale trains became popular along with flexible train tracks! So, each year the platform setup expanded. Mom hated it, because it seemed the living room was a total disaster until Christmas Eve! My favorite part of the little village was a little house that my dad had as a kid. It is an old tan wooden house with a green roof and green window trims, which had little pieces of doily clothe inside for curtains. A tiny Christmas tree sits on the front porch (Photos 11 and 12). It was totally out of scale with the rest of the setup, but that was ok. This little house now sits in my office and it still has that Christmassy smell. It is the most precious thing that I have from my Dad.

Photo 10: Trains and trolleys. Our Christmas platform.

Photos 11: Dad’s model house with the little Christmas tree on the front porch.

Photo 12: Side view of Dad’s wooden house used on the platform

With the HO trains being smaller than the Lionel, we had two trains that went in opposite directions on the outside edge of the display, and because of the new flexible train tracks, we were able to get a streetcar laid out to meander through the little town — it even climbed a hill — just like the streetcars in Pittsburgh. Over the years, Santa gave me several streetcars. However, my favorite was the special edition released in Pittsburgh only — The Shannon Drake — This was the same streetcar line we used to go into town — back in the day when all the shopping took place downtown.

Chapter 16: Pittsburgh streetcars

Streetcars, a truly iconic part of Pittsburgh’s history, were the main public transportation back then. My Uncle Jack was even a streetcar conductor, or as my Aunt says — “he road the rails”. I remember riding the streetcar into town with my Grandma; she would take me on her shopping trips to the after-Christmas sales. I was probably six, and I only remember that she had a black leather purse and matching paten leather shoes with wide heels, that she wore all of the time — I was too short to see anything else! I held on to her hand for dear life — the city was bustling in those days. We would go to Woolworths; they had a restaurant in the basement, and she would buy me lunch there. When I was older, my sister would take me to South Hills Village. Riding the streetcar was like a ride at Kennywood Amusement Park, most of the way was through dense woods along the hillsides — It was hard to believe you were in the city, you really felt like you were out in the wilderness (Photos 15 and 16). Every now and then a tree leaning over the track would brush up against the streetcar and several times on the trip, the streetcar had to cross over a deep ravine on an old rickety wooden bridge — kind of scary, but fun. The streetcar would rock from side to side and you could hear the sparks when the antenna hit a junction on the electric wires which powered the streetcar. And what Pittsburgh kid didn’t place a penny on the tracks so that the streetcar wheel would fold it in half?

Photos 13 and 14: Crossing a ravine and the Shannon Drake. Photos courtesy of: www.brooklineconnection.com

In our part of town, the streetcar tracks were up on the hill on the other side of the gully from our house, about a mile away. Railroad tracks were about 300 ft higher up on that same hill. In the summer, when all the trees were leafed out, you couldn’t see the streetcars or trains. In the winter though, when no leaves were on the trees, I could see them clearly and I would sit on the toilet and look out the window over the hill and watch the trains and streetcars go by. Watching the streetcars and trains across the hill in the winter, especially when all the tree branches were covered with freshly-fallen snow, always reminded me of our own Christmas village under the tree. When I was fortunate to see a train go along the hill, I would count the railroad cars, like we did at Dad’s work. One particular Sunday, I was watching a train go along the tracks and I actually saw it derail. Several of the railroad cars rolled down the hillside onto the streetcar tracks, spilling their contents. Nobody was hurt, but corn spilled everywhere. The following summer we had a crop of corn on the adjacent hills!

Chapter 17: Oh, Christmas Tree, Oh Hun!

While the train setup was a ‘Dad and the boys’ thing, and baking was the ‘Mom’ thing, the whole family pitched in to decorate the Christmas tree. Mom took a break from the kitchen. We always had a real Christmas tree and it was a job to check that all the light bulbs worked; if one wasn’t working, the whole strand would go out. You had to check every bulb. — And of course, the Christmas lights always blew a fuse. This seemed to happened several times during the Christmas season. Dad was the seasoned veteran of going down to the basement in the dark and finding the burnt fuse and replacing it. Back in those days, fuses looked like little glass drawer knobs that screwed into the panel. Once the fuse was replaced and the lights were fixed, we were good to put up the ornaments. We weren’t one of those ‘themed-tree’ households: we had a hodge-podge tree with all kinds of ornaments, each with a special story. We had homemade ornaments that we made out of a special cookie dough, some ornaments that were sewn, and many that were gifts from friends and family. Every kid made Christmas ornaments at school — and of course, there was the year we all made ashtrays for our parents (I guess times have changed!) In our family, everyone enjoyed decorating the tree, except, that is, for Dad. For whatever reason, he hated it. My Mother would say, “Hun, help us decorate the tree”. My Dad would whine out “Gawd Hun, I don’t know how to decorate a Christmas tree”. Mom would whine back, matter-of-factly, “Oh Hun, it’s Christmas, you just put the ornaments on the tree!”. Once the drama of putting up the tree was over, Mom went back to her baking and Dad lit up one of his Camels, letting out a sigh of smoke, relieved that this tree thing was finished.

Chapter 19: Is it Christmas yet?

Finally, Christmas day was quickly approaching — not fast enough for us kids, but too fast for Mom and Dad. I told Mom and Dad not to worry, “Santa will take care of everything”. On Christmas Eve, we went to midnight mass — Mom made me take a nap before we went to church. We all had our new Christmas outfits. It was standing room only at St. Norbert’s and the Manger was front and center at the alter with beautifully decorated Christmas trees all around. As a six-year-old, I though it was pretty, but I had my priorities — Santa was coming with presents! All was good in the church service until the priest starting waving around the thurible of incense. — my stomach was already churning from the smell. I would hold my breath as he walked by. At least one kid was going to vomit from this and I wasn’t going to be that kid — not on Christmas Eve. In retrospect, I think every Catholic kid threw up in church at one point in their Holy youth and then again in school. The only saving Grace was that Sister Francis Marie would give you a rootbeer sucker to get the nasty taste out of your mouth. There was one kid in our class that always threw up — but I think he was just wanted that rootbeer sucker! Fortunately, this puking phenomenon seemed to stop by the time we all hit the third grade.

After mass, we went home; then, set out the cookies for Santa and carrots for the reindeer and go to bed. I asked Mom what kind of cookie should I set out for Santa? She said the pecan tassies. I thought — Oh that is easy to remember — That is Dad’s favorite too! Christmas came to our house the following morning. As kids, we would drink a lot of water before we went to bed, that way we wouldn’t sleep in and miss Christmas. My brothers and I woke up by 6 am, at the latest. We were up before Mom and Dad, but played in our bedroom. It seemed like the number of hours you slept on Christmas Eve was correlated with your age: at 5, I slept 5 hours at the most, and it was my job to wake everyone up in the morning. Then, about 7 am, we would all go downstairs. We would line up on the staircase in this order: Dad first, then Mom, me, my two brothers, then my sister. Every Christmas, before Dad would let us down, he would glimpse into the livingroom and say. “Oh oh, no Christmas presents here, Santa must have forgotten us”. Everyone go back to bed”. Then he would let us come down. There would be a stack of presents for each of us around the Christmas platform. Mom told us which pile of presents was ours — apparently, she and Dad had personal connections with Santa — I knew it, I always had that suspicion! We kids sat on the floor next to our gifts while Mom and Dad sat on the sofa, drinking their coffee (Photo 15). Total chaos — I couldn’t open my presents fast enough. Santa gave me so many toys — everything on my list. On occasion though, Santa threw in a pair of socks, or a shirt — I paused in puzzlement and I thought, “I didn’t put those on my list!” — then I would push those big people gifts aside and continue with the toys! By the end of unwrapping gifts, the room was askew with torn wrapping paper and boxes — Tramp and I were buried in that pile somewhere. What a morning, but the Christmas festivities had just begun.

Photo 15: Christmas 1967. Left to right, my sister, my two brothers, Mom and me.

Chapter 20: “Put your stuff away, company’s coming”

We had to help clean up the wrapping paper and boxes. Then Mom would make a big breakfast: eggs, bacon, orange juice and toast — oh and some candy from our stockings for dessert. When we were done, Mom would make us take all of our present upstairs and get dressed for the day — Company would soon be here. With 35 first cousins on my Mom’s side alone, a lot of people would be stopping by. We stayed home on Christmas Day, and people came to us. We were on one of those streets — My cousins, MaryAnn and Bob, lived across the street and Uncle Boe and Aunt Pearl lived four doors down on our side of the street — So you could hit up three families with one stop — what a bargain! Look out Odette, the Dilla Clan would soon be taking over the street.

Somehow my Mom managed to make a huge dinner during the day, despite company coming in and out. My job was to refresh the cookie tray after each family left — at which time, I also scarfed down several buckeyes — one of my favorite cookies. My Mom’s youngest brother, Uncle Jack and his wife Aunt Lee and four kids would always make their rounds on Christmas Day. It would usually be very close to dinner. First, they would go across the street to MaryAnn’s and Bob’s. We could see them over there and we knew we were next. I was assigned look-out duty, and would give Mom updates every five minutes. — Mom was stressed — Christmas Dinner was the meal of the year and had to be perfect. One year, sure enough, Uncle Jack and the Family came just as dinner was getting on the table. My Mother, usually the quiet type, said “Jack, we don’t mind you coming over, we will even have you for dinner, but you have to let us know!” He was easy-going and their feelings weren’t hurt and they came back after they visited Aunt Pearl and Uncle Boe down the street. Then there was the year they came and a snow storm hit. — Yep, they got snowed in and had to spend the night. Dad and Uncle Jack had to walk down to the store to buy baby formula for me and my cousin Steve. I guess a story about Pittsburgh Christmases would not be complete without a “getting-snowed-in” incident.

Visiting relatives during the holidays was also an adventure — seeing their Christmas trees and platforms with the trains — and trying everybody’s Christmas cookies was just as festive as Christmas day itself. We made our rounds visiting between Christmas and New Year’s. Mom always brought a fruitcake for each one of her brothers and sisters. And there was always that chance of snow while you were visiting someone. Many times, it would start snowing while we were out visiting — keeping an eye on the weather was part of Pittsburgh life. On several occasions, I heard my Mom say to a relative we were visiting, “Well, we better go, the snow is starting to stick to the street” — so ended visits for that day. But that was okay, I got to go home and play with my toys.

Ahhhh! I will never forget those Christmases. It truly was the best time of the year. Once everything was taken down and put away, the smell of Christmas still lingered in the air. This magical Christmas dust lulled me to sleep with dreams of Christmas Day for at least a month.

Times have certainly changed and many of our loved ones are gone. We are no longer the kids, but now the parents or grandparents. However, new memories and traditions will be made and I make an effort every year to bring back the Christmas Spirit and create new memories, if not for me, for other people, especially my friends.

And so the story continues….

Chapter 21: Back to the Future

I’m not done yet! — Or as my grandmother once said “He talks and talks — he never shuts up!” (There is literally a video recording of her saying this). Fast forward to the 21st century …Life continues to pave new memories, and Christmas and especially the fruitcake story and its journey is a road that never ends ……

Even though I am over 2500 miles from Pittsburgh and almost 40 years have passed, life happily goes on — and I make an effort to embrace each day and appreciate my health and friends. My Mom died at 65 and my Dad died at 70. When my Mom died, I realized life could be short. This tough lesson taught me to ‘stop and smell the roses’ — I enjoy the journey — in fact, the journey is the most important part of life to me. I go down new roads in life, and embrace the journey along the way. I meet new people, learn new things, and see new places. Currently, many of my adventures are local (California is a beautiful state; it is geographically and culturally diverse)…. As you will see in these following passages.

Chapter 22: Dates, The Desert and the Time Traveler

By 1998, a job opportunity landed me in Rancho Cucamonga, CA. Warner Bros. Daffy Duck was right, there really is a Cucamonga on Track 5. I have been living in California since then, though I now live in Riverside, CA. So, what is just an hour drive from me? — The Date Capitol of the World — Indio, CA! That’s right, another passage enters into the fruitcake story with a trip to Shield’s Date Farm in Indio.

To get to Indio, you have to go east on the 10. This is another wonderful trip, albeit short, but with a neat stop along the way. I get a nice mug of hot coffee to take on the drive since the December mornings are usually chilly by now, even in southern California. Once you get through the San Gorgonio Pass, the warm desert sun comes out to greet you — Ahhhhh! Along the way, I need a bathroom break and I stop to see the giant dinosaurs at Cabazon. Yep, a giant Apatosaurus (brontosaurus) named Dinny (Photo 16) and a T-Rex (Photo 17). You can even go inside the body of Dinny since he has a gift shop inside his belly. I don’t care how old you are — if you stop here, you can’t help but be a kid again. Once I bid Dinny and Rex a farewell, I get back on the road.

Photo 16: Dinny the dinosaur. He even has a gift shop in his belly!

Photo 17: T-Rex in his Santa Suit!

As you coast down into the desert valley, something happens — the hustle and bustle of the Los Angeles metropolis slowly fades away in your rear-view mirror and you enter into the era of Dean Martin, Sammy Davis, Jr. and Frank Sinatra — “The Rat Pack”. The first indications of this time travel are noted by giant billboards for casinos advertising singers, bands and comedians, whose heyday were in the 60s and 70s (my thought bubble goes — “oh are they still alive?”). In semi-retirement, these performers put on shows in the desert, since it is a major retirement community filled with the Baby Boomers who adored them.

But keep driving and tune into the local radio station, 107.3. You will go back to the 40s, 50s and 60s with tunes sung by Doris Day, Dean Martin, Bing Crosby and Andrew Sisters — which appropriately sets the mood for me and my journey back to Christmases past. Once you enter the Palm Springs area, you can take side streets with names like Gene Audrey Trail, Bob Hope Dr., Frank Sinatra Dr., and Dinah Shore Dr. Even the houses are retro — split levels with flat roofs. All of a sudden, the radio is playing Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra’s “It’s a marshmallow world in the winter” — Martinis anyone?!

Now just as Doris Day is singing “Que sera sera” on the radio, the giant Shields Date sign finally comes into view. Just like the music, the sign is reminiscent of the olden days — the wood cutout of the knight is painted in faded blue-gray (Photos 18and 19). If you grew up in the 60s and 70s, this color should be etched in your memory: We saw that same blue every Sunday night when we watched the Wonderful World of Disney — The People Mover tram cars were painted this color — they showed this before they played the movie. Many of my toys were also this color and of course, don’t forget the station wagons, with the wood paneling on the sides and the VW buses. My friend has a 1971 VW bus in this color (Photo 20). I just want to hug it when I see it, but they already think I am crazy enough! I call this color ‘Happy Blue’. If you see anything in this color, it just makes you happy….. well…..except for leisure suits……Ewww, what were they thinking?!

Photos 18: Shields Dates in Indio, CA.

Photo 19: Shield’s Dates Gladiator sign in that wonderful retro-blue color!

Photo 20: My friend’s 1971, “Happy-Blue” VW bus. Can you say “Beach Trip”!

Shields Dates is off the 111 — you can’t miss it. It is a wonderful store that has those gaudy signs and lights that promise sweets and trivial gifts for anyone who passes through their doors. Did I mention that there is a movie to watch as well? — “The History and Sex Life of the Date”. Who could pass that up?! When you walk in, there are a bunch of tchotchkes like retro toys, calendars and funny birthday cards to tempt the money out of your wallets. They also sell grapefruits, since those are also grown in the desert. There is an ice cream bar in the back of the store which sells homemade date shakes. So of course, I get a date shake to make my annual pilgrimage to this store that much more special. To the right of the store are the many varieties of dates for sale: gift packs with an assortment of stuffed dates, date varieties, and anything else you can think of that is made of dates. In the back of the store is the glass counter, just like the one that was at the Frozen Eggs and Fruit Co. in Pittsburgh. However, at Shields, the glass case displays date paraphernalia like old faded recipe books and black and white photos of date harvests from years past (Photo 21).

Photo 21: The Glass counter in the back of Shields Dates.

Now, since it is the winter, all of the retired Snowbirds are down in the desert too, so you will probably have to work around several blue-haired ladies that smell of Charlie perfume. Retired couples love to hang out here. I know them by name: Marge and Edgar and Helen and Morty. I know this because you hear them yelling out to each other in the store “Helen, where are you?” “I was in the Lady’s room Morty- I told you. I had to adjust my slip. Turn up your hearing aide to 9”. Seriously, they should sell tickets for this place: It is like an unfolding sitcom. I expect to run into Ethel and Fred on one of these visits. Another thought — how do older women get their hair blue? However, the best part of Shields is at the counter — you can try all the date varieties that they have before you buy them. I always know what I will buy before I enter the store, but I always pretend to be indecisive, until I had my fill! Of course, I am usually elbowing Morty out of the way! Once, I buy my dates, I go over to the ice cream counter to get my date shake (Photo 22). Then I walk around the store and people watch as I drink my shake.

Photo 22: Shield’s famous shake — I think this should come with a shot of insulin!

Back to the fruitcakes. What is it that I do do? I really do do my homework and I have experimented with several date varieties over the years. The date in the fruitcake needs to have a definitive taste so that it stands out from the other flavors in the cake and it must be firm enough that it does not dissolve into the batter during baking. With this in mind, I have developed a fondness for the Abbada date or Abada date — and its story! This date was discovered in Brawley, CA. in 1936 by D.J. Snif. He named the fruit after his wife, Abby and daughter, Dana. This is a black date which is firm and a molasses-chocolate flavor. I like its unique flavor and color and it holds up well in the baking process. It is only grown in Indio, and only about 100 trees exist. I really love the Bahri date as well. It tastes like butterscotch, but it is too soft for baking, so I buy a few pounds of this variety to eat over the holidays.

N’at

In addition to the fruitcakes, I also use the Abbada dates in my Anadama bread. That’s right — I make Abbada Anadama Bread. This supposedly true story of Anadama bread is that during the 1800’s, a fisherman in New England would come home and his wife would inevitably not have the cornbread done. One day, in disgust, he said “Damnit Anna” and he finished making the bread by throwing in some yeast and flour into the cornbread and molasses mixture and wallah — Damn Anna — now called Anadama bread was born. We do not know what happened to Anna though!

Chapter 23: Raisins..They ain’t what they used to be!

Now, as I mentioned earlier, my Mom used a raisin, that she and Grandma referred to as smearies. As I recall, these were large greasy raisins. I could not find these in the grocery store and looked online for ‘smearies’ with no success. Then, I researched the history of raisins. It turns out these were a muscadine, also known as muscats, a very large grape, grown in warmer climates. These were the raisins before Thompson seedless raisins were developed. But why were they greasy? Well, Armenians were the culture that had the knack for drying grapes into raisins, and to prevent these large muscadines from getting too dry, they would coat them with a vegetable oil, hence the ‘smearie’ name that my Mom and Grandma used was very appropriate. Interestingly, Armenians came to America and were instrumental in starting the raisin industry around Fresno, CA. where the brand Sunmaid is headquartered. Therefore, no surprise, Fresno has a huge raisin industry, and appropriately, a large Armenian population. Sunmaid does sell muscat raisins, but they are now imported from Australia.

The trip to Fresno from Riverside is was wonderful seven-hour journey. The trip through the central valley of California is mostly agricultural scenery — miles and miles of citrus, then miles and miles and miles of almonds. You can drive up on old highway 99, or the faster interstate 5. I took 99, of course, so that I could stop at little markets and stores along the way and create more memories. A lot of fruit stands along the way, especially dried fruits, at least during October. I always listen to local radio stations on my trips. In the central valley, you tune into any station that you can pick up, usually it is Hispanish (as my aunt would say) music or preachers trying to save your soul. The irony was that Jesus and his Mariachi band were singing to you on one station or Jesus was trying to save you from damnation on another station — either way, you were going to listen to Jesus, his name was just pronounced differently! As you get closer to Fresno, you see grapevines everywhere, but these are not for wine or table grapes, these are for raisins. If you come to Fresno in August and September, the rich caramel smell of raisins drying in the fields will swoon you. Once you get off of the 99, you go down a long narrow road, barely wide enough for two cars; then low and behold, you see the Sun maiden herself off in the distance (Photo 23). Her beautiful dark hair with her bonnet greets you as you enter the parking lot. I thought she looked familiar, then I realized she looked a lot like the Hains grocery store cashier, Irene, who oddly enough was probably Armenian.

The Sun Maid retail store is located right at the plant. If you were lucky, you could tour the packing plant, but there were no tours the day I visited. However, the retail store was great! As you walk in, there is a long glass counter, just like Shields Dates in Palm Springs and the Frozen Eggs and Fruit Co. in Mt. Washington. However, at Sun Maid you get to sample raisins, nuts and wonderful confections made from dried fruits and nuts, so come hungry. Again, I always pretend to be undecisive, until I have had my fill or was ready to pass out from the sugar rush. Sun Maid didn’t sell just raisins; they had all kinds of nuts and dried fruits, since most of these crops were grown in proximity to Fresno. The store also sold assorted gift boxes, silly cards, recipe books, jams and jellies. –again, anything to get your money. It seems universal though, that all of these gift shops, regardless of their ‘claim to fame’ sell jellies laced with hot peppers — really? Who is buying these? It is all very funny to me. These retailers know we are weak when it comes to buying things we do not need. I have to say though, the smell of all the dried fruits and nuts, jams and candies is heavenly — The sweet smells and ‘old candy store’ atmosphere just zoom me back in time with Mom at the Frozen Eggs and Fruit Co. Mom would have loved the Sun Maid store as well — I always feel like she is right next to me in these places, smiling as she fills her basket with dried fruits and nuts — and in her mind she is anxiously thinking of the cookies and other baked goods she will be making with these treasures when she gets home. Meanwhile, my Dad is in the corner of the store, rolling his eyes, wondering how much longer we will be in this place and how much is Hun is going to spend here? My Dad’s only goals on these road trips were to see how fast he could get there and where we would stop for lunch! — I still loved him though.

Photo 23: SunMaid Raisin Sign

Once my mind came back to the present, I shopped around and got what I came for — the muscat raisins, plus other kinds of raisins, coated in chocolate, yogurt or anything with sugar. I got some really good figs that year for the fruitcakes too — So $200 later, I was very proud of my catch, but filled with buyer’s remorse — How do you logically explain to anyone that you just drove 500 miles roundtrip and spent $200 for raisins?!

Chapter 24: Do I sound drunk?

Time to talk about the liqueur. I must confess that my mom used a cheap brand of apricot brandy. I wanted to use an apricot brandy to stick with tradition, but I wasn’t fond of what she used. Also, over the years, I found out that some fruitcake versions contained dried apricots. However, our recipe only used apricot brandy and I wanted to stick to that. I found two brandies that are wonderful: Abricot Du Roussillon (Giffard of France) and Orchard Apricot (Austria). The French brand has stronger apricot flavor and is creamy. The Austrian brand is lighter and fruity. I like both brands — they are apricoty and smooth, with no chemical aftertaste. I am still in the experimental stage on this part with the brandies, and I must admit that I am having a lot of fun drinking conducting this experiment — All good scientists know how important it is to replicate treatments!

These brandies could be ordered online, like so many other things these days; however, one of my favorite things to do during the holiday season is meeting people. People are in a festive spirit and it is fun to chit chat. I am from Pittsburgh — Pittsburghers talk to everyone! If you are not from Pittsburgh, and you marry a Pittsburgher, I extend my sympathy, since we will drive you crazy. This is also why it takes us four hours to go ¼ mile to the store just to buy milk and eggs! So, rather than order anything online, I drive 50 miles to Hi-time Wine cellars in Newport Beach. The customers are very interesting — even the sober ones! The place is bustling. While Morty and blue-haired Helen are out in the desert, here at Newport Beach, you are more likely to run into sun-kissed Tray and his girlfriend, Sky, sporting their $100 flip flops and tasteful tattoos of King Neptune and a starfish on their shoulders. Like many Californians, these folks are very laid back and really really into their wines. While other parts of the country stock up with drums of fresh water in case of emergencies, Californians stockpile bottles of wine. There are even storage units available just for our wine stash (Photo 24)!

Photo 24: Self-storage in Santa Barbara, CA specifically for wine. No wonder we Californians are a happy bunch!

Back to the brandy…So, being that I am two blocks from the beach, the wetsuit and fins come on this trip (but they are usually in my truck anyway), for a quick diving adventure after getting the brandy. Really, who can be two blocks from the beach and not swim, dive or surf?… and it is December and snowing in other parts of the country, which makes the whole experience even more wonderful. Have you sensed that I am really over the snow thing?! Once I get my gills wet and say hello (grunt, grunt) to the bright orange Garibaldi fish, I dry off in the warm sun, but still smelling of seaweed, and head back home to get Christmas started.

The Christmas tree and train are up and I now have all of my ingredients for the fruitcakes. I pull out the old Ovenex Ecko №7 baking pans. I get a hot cup of coffee, turn on the radio and I fall back into my Christmases as a child… I close my eyes…..

I’m sitting at the table in the corner of my Mom’s kitchen, playing with the green and red sugar sprinkles and cookie cutters in the shapes of Santa Claus, reindeers, and candy canes. The Andrew Sisters and Bing Crosby are singing Jingle Bells on the radio on top of the refrigerator. The smell of the magical Christmas dust is wafting in the air from the Christmas boxes and I can hear our toy trains going around the track, “clickidy clack clickidy clack” in the living room. It is snowing outside and the kitchen window is steamed up from Mom’s baking and the room is filled with that sweet spicy scent that is only around at Christmas… yes, it is Christmas time again.

Embrace the Memories!

Be Safe, Be Happy, Live Healthy!

And Happy Holidays,

Donald Merhaut

Christmas 2020